march / april 2007:

Not-isyahu
Lubavitch rockers Chunah Silverman and Menachem Shapiro are bringing biblical rhymes to the mainstream. Say hello to the other white Jewish Hasidic reggae rappers.

By Matthue Roth



Before I met Chunah Silverman of Ta-Shma, I’d heard of him. Not the same way people are hearing him now, at concerts or on the radio, but as a Crown Heights urban legend.

The population of Crown Heights, Brooklyn, is largely divided between Jamaican immigrants and members of the Lubavitch sect of Hasidic Judaism. Usually, except for a scuffle every few years, there’s barely any interaction between the two communities.

Then Silverman came along.

The stories started out as whispers among yeshiva boys then spread to synagogue gossip. There was a Lubavitch guy, six foot seven if he was an inch, who would walk up to groups of African American kids on the street and challenge them to rap battles. They would face off in the traditional way, one beatboxing a rhythm with his mouth while the other improvised a few lines, and they would spit verses back and forth. According to scuttlebutt, this Lubavitcher squarely defeated every person he challenged, to the point where he was even gaining a following among both halves of the Crown Heights population.

At least part of the rumors are true: Silverman is tall. Skinny and stately, with a bright orange pointed beard, he takes up more space in a room than he actually occupies. But it’s not just that; he has this presence, something intangible between his eyes and the brim of his black hat, that’s impossible to put your finger on.

That is it’s impossible right up to the point when he grabs a microphone and starts pouring out his soul.

Come, Listen, the group’s first album, has gained a steady following on MySpace, the religiosecular fans of reggae singer Matisyahu and rapper Y-Love (both of whom make cameos on Come, Listen), and the college music charts. The album’s sound is puzzling — not because it’s convoluted and eclectic and pretentious, or some neo-hipster combination of the three, but because it isn’t. It’s a solid, straightforward, and quality hip-hop album with beats that are catchy enough to dance to, but simple enough so that Ta-Shma’s MCs can sneak in, freestyle their asses off, and give over a little Torah in the meantime.

Even in these days when Matisyahu is a household name, it’s a little funny to hear Silverman and fellow M.C. Menachem Shapiro talk. They’re timid, thoughtful, and Torah-minded, quoting the Lubavitcher Rebbe and alluding to the Torah when I ask them questions. They’re both family men — Silverman, 28, got married almost two years ago; Shapiro, 26, did a month later — and both are parents. Onstage, though, they morph into an unhinged battlefield of rhymes and movement. Silverman, who these days handles most of the songs’ choruses and hooks, belts out singing, half cantor and half Gladys Knight, while Shapiro’s body quakes in time with the stark, edgy delivery of his verses. Both are thin and wiry; both almost swallowed by their long black Hasidic jackets.

The two met three years ago, on the Jewish festival of Purim, when they were both full-time yeshiva students. Shapiro was putting together the yeshiva’s Purim entertainment, and part of it involved a rhyme. He’d heard of Silverman’s reputation, tracked him down and asked him to beatbox … and, well, the rest is history.

These days, Ta-Shma are everywhere. On the radio; on their CD, which is getting widespread word-of-mouth distribution through Lubavitchers and young Orthodox hipsters; or in the pages of Lubavitch magazines like Farbrengen, who have embraced the duo. If the world is separated by six degrees of separation, then Jews are separated by three degrees, and Lubavitchers by two. And, while their sound isn’t exactly what your bubbe would listen to, she isn’t likely to have any problem with the lyrical content — it’s positive hip-hop with a message everyone can get into.

Which isn’t to say that Ta-Shma haven’t encountered opposition to their message. “Within Chabad,” says Silverman, “there are people who hold certain ideas. So when they see us doing their thing, they mistake our shlichus with warping or distorting what the Rebbe wants, what God wants us to do in this world.” Shlichus is the word that Lubavitchers use to refer to getting people on the street to light Shabbat candles, to do commandments, to get them closer to God.

And, says Silverman, getting onstage and making albums is his shlichus. “Shlichus is fulfilling your personal potential,” he tells me, “and dragging people along with you.”

When I ask the question of whether they would play at secular clubs, and to mixed audiences, Silverman stops. “Hopefully,” he says after a pause. So far, their audience has been limited to official Jewish functions and small clubs in New York. But the question of how long they’ll stay that way — how long until they break into the mainstream, or just stay the smartest Hasidic party band in Brooklyn — is never far from their thoughts.

It might be a dream, but it’s the dream that sustains them through the Hasidic naysayers, too. “Five years from now, if you turn around and you see hundreds of extra guys in yeshiva because of us, then we’ll know we did our job,” says Silverman. “Until then, you have to keep just believing.”


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