Israeli music guru Yoav Kutner says artists are muzzled over fears of political fallout

Yoav Kutner needs no introduction for Israelis who grew up in the 1980s and beyond. It was a time when the Israel Broadcasting Authority and Army Radio dominated the media landscape, and he was allocated key time slots on their platforms.

Serving as a radio broadcaster, music editor, lecturer, and creator of TV and radio series, Kutner became the most authoritative voice on Israeli and non-Israeli music: a cross-generational music maven.

Music is a constant in his often-tumultuous life — which includes losing his memory in an accident in Switzerland before turning 18 — and he has engulfed himself in it.

His home looks like a record library at a radio station. The walls are laden with shelves, from floor to ceiling, all packed with records and CDs. As he enters the eighth decade of his life, his encyclopedic knowledge and unique perspective of the Israeli music scene are unparalleled.

However, he is worried. Not about the predominant musical taste today, which he describes as pop music with a Mizrahi undertone and strewn with religious Jewish lyrics, but rather about the current war, politics, and their intersection with music. He feels many artists don’t speak up their minds for fear of being blacklisted.

He also feels that whatever influence he once wielded is long gone, sufficing now with more modest ways of affecting public discourse.

“During the Lebanon War and the intifada, I felt I could make some difference,” he says. “But today? What can one do, the ordinary citizen? So, I just keep doing what I know how to do and go to demonstrations.”

Ever since the war broke out, this eternal child and diehard music lover has been low-spirited, as all of us have been. However, precisely for this reason, the optimism that has always been his hallmark has become a purpose in and of itself. And he has been sticking to it like a man of faith sticks to a prayer.

Kutner shares three children with his wife, Yael. Originally a Jerusalemite, he currently resides in Tel Aviv, where we met him for a sit-down interview about music, activism, and recovering from cancer, with which he was diagnosed in 2020.

How are you?

Yoav Kutner: I’m fighting hard with everything I’ve got to not break down in despair. It’s become very hard to do in light of the situation, but I think it’s my role — within my family as well as the places in which I work — to do my best to keep the morale up. As for me — I am feeling alright.

How so?

In December 2020, I was diagnosed with cancer. The past two years were difficult, health-wise. On the day I was diagnosed, my psychologist, whom I loved and had been seeing for 30 years, passed away. I underwent three surgeries and defeated cancer — or rather, the doctors did. I had 60 days of free parking at Ichilov Hospital. The department in which I underwent radiation was called “Radio Therapy.”

Well, I’m home now. Cancer didn’t make me rethink life because it was clear that I would recover from it. It did make me realize the power of optimism though, which is very potent.

Thanks to my psychologist, I took a course in Buddhism and started meditating every day. I’m not a Buddhist, but my takeaway from the course was that there was no point in suffering from things I can’t change.

Suppose you wake up in the morning and it’s raining. You can say, “OK, it’s raining outside. I’ll prepare accordingly and take an umbrella.” Or you could get bummed out and say, “Why now? How am I going to ride my bicycle in the rain,” in which case you immediately begin to suffer. I’ve experienced plenty of pain and apprehension concerning cancer, but never did I ask, “Why me?”

Speaking of life-altering events, I want to go back with you to when you were 18, to the accident you had before your military service which resulted in your loss of memory. All that had been accumulated by then was erased. You had to learn again how to walk, talk, read and write, name things, and know who you were.

Human memory is comprised of different types of memory. For instance, a person learns to talk, walk, and not wet his bed. My body remembered that after the accident; the technique of speech didn’t vanish — I knew how to produce sound, but I didn’t understand the language. I remember it being scary, mainly the feeling that people knew me, but I didn’t know who they were. Suddenly, someone came and said to me, “Hi, I was your best friend,” and I couldn’t remember.

From a different perspective: I think that many times, memory is a story. Namely, it doesn’t necessarily reflect what actually transpired, but rather a version that someone chooses to recount. For example, in 1969, during The Beatles’ last days, someone filmed them for the movie “Let It Be.” Two years ago, Peter Jackson, who had directed “The Lord of the Rings,” took the same footage and turned it into a series over eight hours long.

It was construed from the original version that the band members accused Yoko Ono of breaking up the band. The renewed version, which relies on exactly the same material, tells a different story. The filmmaker chose to present them differently. Over the years, I, too, have changed my mind. It happened long after “The Mysterious Magic Ride,” 60 hours I had broadcasted on Israel Army Radio between 1981 and 1982.

Everything I know about my past life comes from stories I’ve been told. Among other things, I’ve been told that I’d been in charge of the parties and listened to a lot of records. There were times in which I found it hard to come to terms with not remembering my own childhood, but I think the memory loss was a driving force. It motivated me to do a lot of things, like researching music and sorting it out.

Over the years, you’ve positioned yourself in the music world somewhere between mainstream and indie. Where do you stand today?

Pretty early on in my professional life, when records were all that was around, I realized something about myself: I don’t necessarily like the hit, but rather prefer the B side of the record. It also has to do with not wanting to be like everyone else. If a famous singer releases a single, everyone is going to play it. He doesn’t need me. But suppose a new single is released by a band called “The Tiles” — two amazing women creating alternative rock — if I don’t play them, who will?

I said to myself, “You have a certain power.” But there’s a catch here: I do want to be liked. Later on, I realized that not everyone was going to like me and that was a profound realization. I once created a series titled “The Albums” which was aired on Channel 8. Ten albums that my editorial colleagues and I chose to talk about. I was sure all those who didn’t watch it hated me.

I also had a problem with another series, aired on Channel 1 in 1998, titled “The Orange Season is Over” (Sof Onat HaTapuzim). On TV, you can’t delve into something unless you focus on a specific angle. However, if you want to cover a period, you necessarily skim. I emerged from that series feeling terrible about having to choose who was important and who wasn’t, whose story to tell, and whose to leave out.

This is one of the reasons why, two years later, I co-founded the Mooma website, an encyclopedia-like website of Israeli music, where I could write about everyone. Having said that, I realize that’s just the way things go. Some things you don’t like.

Let’s talk about the situation for a minute. Namely, about continuing to do radio and music shows when outside one disaster begets another. People are broken. Bereavement is mercilessly befalling us. Israel is on fire.

Once, during the Lebanon War and the intifada, I felt I could make some difference. But today? What can one do, the ordinary citizen? So, I just keep doing what I know how to do and go to demonstrations.

Are you worried?

I’m not worried — I’m very worried. But, clinging on to optimism, I hope that from this horrible crisis, we’ll know how to be reborn.

There’s a song written, composed and performed by Yaakov “Yankele” Rotblit 20 years ago titled “Will We Know How to Be Reborn Anew?” (Haim Neda Lehivaled Shuv Mehadash?). When the war broke out, The Backyard, whose music is often political, re-recorded it and I think that if there is one song that represents the current time, it is this one.

Sometimes, culture and art react differently to a social, military, and political crisis. I remember that after the Yom Kippur War, there was suddenly greater legitimacy to play on the radio music that had been marginalized by then, like the Israeli jazz band Platina. Something happened.

Today, music is diverse and colorful, but the predominant kind is a certain type of pop music with a Mizrahi undertone, strewn with religious lyrics. On the other hand, and this is something I witness, there is a need to go back to past songs.

Where do you see that?

For many years, I’ve been giving lectures about music and the stories behind the songs. Since the war broke out, there has been an increasing demand for what I call “heritage class.” Namely, songs that talk about the love of the land, not just in the sense that things are jolly here, but rather songs like “Is It True?” (“Haomnam”) written by Leah Goldberg during World War II.

Do people seek solace in songs?

Yes, but not in an “everything-will-be-OK” sort of way, but something more profound, like the song “Play on, Play on,” (Sachaki, Sachaki) by Shaul Tchernichovsky: “In mankind I still believe, in his spirit, a bold spirit.” This poem carries a universal message of hope and love for a fellow human being, which is why it has been suggested multiple times to substitute the quintessential Jewish HaTikvah as the national anthem.

And there’s another highly sought-after song, which is “The Song of Ascent” (Shir HaMaalot). The lyrics are from Psalm 126 and the music is by Pinhas Minkowsky. It is a religious song performed by rabbi and cantor Yossele Rosenblatt in 1935. Think of its meaning: A cross-generational religious-Zionist song. It’s great.

What is the role or place of art these days?

First of all, we’re still inside this thing, so it’s hard to tell. Some people find it very hard to write or compose in times like these. The song “The Wheat Grows Again” (HaHita Zomahat Shuv) was written by Dorit Zameret, a member of Kibbutz Beit HaShita, after 11 of its members had been killed during the Yom Kippur War. It was written after the war, and I believe art has a number of roles, including providing some distraction, encouragement, and hope.

One of the music sessions filmed at my home included Dudi Levi and Tal Gordon. We talked about the role of music and Dudi said: “When you perform for soldiers, they mainly want to feel energized. They don’t want to wallow. But an audience of wounded people, hostage family members, evacuees — all seek solace, and I think this is music’s primary role, certainly now.”

And what do you think?

That music has another, far more elusive and less self-explanatory role: to express anger and protest, point at fuckups and failures, as well as point a finger. Many artists are afraid to assume this position.

Do you think artists are afraid to write or express their truth?

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak to alumni of the Rimon School of Music at an event called Rimon-Rock in memory of Dan Toren, may his memory be a blessing. I told them there were two main reasons to make art. There are those for whom success is the top priority. They want to make money and be liked by a lot of people. Another reason is the need for self-expression.

A lot of artists who took a stand, like Si Himan in “Shooting and Crying” (Yorim VeBochim) or Nurit Galron in “Don’t Tell Me About a Little Girl Who Lost Her Eye” (Al Tesaper Li Al Yalda SheIbda Et Einah) — have paid a price.

This is where I want to note the band Hadag Nahash — one of the most important bands in the past 20 years which makes harsh statements in its songs, yet is nevertheless successful. But usually, when political statements tilt slightly to the left, you risk being blacklisted — like Achinoam Nini (Noa) — or receive death threats.

If you say something that some people find too left-leaning, you’re doomed as an artist. You will not get invited to various municipalities, councils, and community centers. You must have a lot of confidence and loyal fans to say something outside the consensus. I think that before long, someone is going to get hurt.

On the other hand, Ariel Zilber released the song “Replace the Horses” (Lehachalif Et Hasoosim), in which he lists people in official capacities that need to be sacked, such as the attorney general.

Seven years ago, I did a story on Hadag Nahash’s “Sticker Song” (“Shirat HaSticker”). I read again the lyrics, which had been comprised of stickers collected by David Grossman that he turned into text. I thought most stickers in the song, which were right-leaning, were far stronger in spurring action. For example: “No Arabs – No Terror Attacks.” I’m interested in this phenomenon.

I have friends who are mad at me because once every few days I turn on Channel 14. But I do that in order to not live inside a bubble with like-minded people. So, sometimes I watch Channel 14 in disbelief.

What are you working on these days?

Tomorrow ends the filmed series “Stories in Mono” that I have been hosting for a decade in Jerusalem’s Beit Avi Chai. I give lectures on music and musicians, in some cases alongside the artist. Aside from that, I am working on a new documentary series to be broadcast on Channel Kan 11 about the band Kaveret, and I host a regular show on Radio Hakatzeh.

Two weeks ago, I went back to hosting “Kutner’s Jam,” which went on a break from Army Radio when the war started. Then I met musician Micha Biton, who had been evacuated from his home in Netiv Ha’Asara almost a year ago to a hotel in Tel Aviv. He came to me with a guitar and halfway through the meeting I had an idea: Host jam sessions at my home. So, while we couldn’t fit a whole band, the sessions were recorded and filmed in a highly professional manner and later aired on Galgalatz radio.

Two weeks ago, we went back to airing them on Army Radio and we are recording and filming in a studio called, believe it or not, “A-Nova.” And there’s something else I started doing two weeks ago.

A few weeks ago, a woman whom I didn’t know contacted me and said, “My name is Jennie Sividia. I am the sister of Shlomi Sividia, who was murdered at the Supernova festival along with his spouse Dr. Lilia (Lilly) Gurevich. I was there too, with my spouse, and we were saved. Shlomi really liked music. He was a true expert. At home, we used to call him ‘Little Kutner,’ when in fact he was working in Hi-Tech. His dream was to edit a radio show. He compiled 23 playlists and sent them to his friends.”

I was deeply touched by the story she told me and, two weeks ago, on Radio Hakatzeh, I started hosting a show called “Shlomi’s Mix-Tape,” a series in parts. Every Tuesday I play a playlist compiled by Shlomi, and every three songs I intervene and say something. It’s minor. It’s the least I can do. But as far as his family and friends are concerned, I made his dream come true.

Do you feel a change in the way people listen to music these days?

I feel that there are always those upbeat hits, “all-out war” and “let’s show them.” On the other hand, I think the question of who we are is being more profoundly addressed. Many of the songs I’ve been listening to over the past year are of a different nature.

I’m not against popular music but I feel that people, driven by shattered dreams, shock, and loss, connect to a somewhat different kind of music.