City of Song: Music and the Making of Modern Jerusalem. Michael A. Figueroa. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2022.

Reviewed by Tanya Sermer

Michael A. Figueroa’s captivating City of Song: Music and the Making of Modern Jerusalem is a book about Jerusalems—high/low, celestial/terrestrial, metaphorical/material—and how musical representations of the city have produced a multiplicity of political imaginaries about those Jerusalems in modernity. Combining an impressive array of interdisciplinary theory, historical and archival study, ethnographic fieldwork, and close listening to songs in Hebrew about the city, Figueroa creates a sophisticated framework for understanding how music and poetry (from the Psalms through Israeli popular song of the 1970s) have been used to create subjective and changing “spatial knowledge” about Jerusalem among Zionist Jews and Israelis over the course of the twentieth century. Presenting a remarkably nuanced exploration of the contested meanings inherent in cultural output regarding the city, Figueroa is deliberate in his relational approach to the people and spaces in his study; discussions of Jerusalem throughout the book consider the perspectives and concerns of Palestinian Arabs, Armenians, or ethnic and religious divisions within the Jewish and Israeli populations. Figueroa’s commitment to a relational approach—a growing body of such scholarship in musical studies of Israel and Palestine that aims to break down the mutual exclusion of those two national narratives as well as the conventional dichotomies within them—offers the reader a rich picture of the social and political forces at play and the greater implications of the territorial imaginaries that underpin the songs Figueroa examines. 

Figueroa asks whether songs about Jerusalem, written from a variety of perspectives as well as in a range of literary and musical styles, can be considered a “genre.” His analysis focuses on songs composed from the 1880s (during the New Yishuv) through the 1970s when Labor Zionism lost its primacy as the dominant political ideology in Israel. Figueroa develops what he terms a “musical genealogy,” tracing historical memory and the continuing social life and reception of particular repertoires. He examines poetic texts and songs from the Psalms, through Yehuda Halevy to Naomi Shemer and Dan Almagor. Occasionally, he extends his analysis to later alternative rock or hip-hop songs to demonstrate the continuing salience of certain tropes or the dialogue of contemporary artists with past repertoires.  

Figueroa spends a great deal of energy justifying the ethnographic present as a window into understanding the past and how knowledge is constructed and transmitted over time. Perhaps in this he is communicating more with historians; scholars of musical ethnography do not need to be persuaded of this. He shares his approach to integrating historical and ethnographic methods with other scholars of music in Israel, but his impressive innovation beyond these studies is his extensive theorization of musical genealogy, a methodological and theoretical framework that may be broadly applicable to musicological and ethnomusicological work in any area.

Following the introduction, in which Figueroa lays the foundation for his extensive theoretical framework, each of the following five chapters focuses on a specific theme in the musical production of Jerusalem. Each centers on a particular musical and poetic repertoire, a number of poetic techniques and cultural tropes, and specific places or historical moments.

Chapter One explores the longing for Jerusalem as part of the Zionist ethos, on one hand, focusing on Yishuv-era representations of Jerusalem, the centrality of Psalm 137 in musical settings about the city, and the construction of Yehuda Halevi as an early “proto-Zionist” and the musical renditions of his most famous verses. [1] Chapter Two then addresses Jerusalem’s relative absence in Yishuv-period cultural production, on the other hand, and showcases how some songs from the Yishuv and early state period transport images and metaphors historically used for Jerusalem to the Galilee and the desert, or to Tel Aviv as a Jewish utopia and the capital of Jewish modernity. Among the lesser-known symbolism in representations of Jerusalem, Figueroa shows how sexual violence signified anti-Jerusalem sentiment in poetry from the prophetic books to Alexander Pen and Dalia Rabikovich. Chapter Three focuses on the politics of bereavement, demonstrating how collective memory of violence and loss is inscribed on the city’s sites and its musical discourses. This chapter is particularly creative in its juxtaposition of musical discourses onto a mapping of Jerusalem’s commemorative space. 

Naomi Shemer’s iconic “Jerusalem of Gold” forms the basis of Chapter Four. No book on Jerusalem song would be complete without Shemer’s anthem, and Figueroa spends this chapter evaluating the song within his framework of musical genealogy and the construction of spatial knowledge of the city. Figueroa’s important critique of the song’s political stance and implications is well-founded and justified but must be understood in proportion to that critique’s place in the song’s reception history. Claiming that “‘Jerusalem of Gold’ is among the most polysemic cultural artifacts ever produced in Israel” (187) is certainly valid from an analytical standpoint, but it overstates the prominence of that critique in broader Israeli discourse. Neither the exclusionist politics of the lyrics nor the musical appropriation of the melody have diminished the song’s anthem-like status both in Israel and throughout the Jewish diaspora. Although aficionados of Israeli music might find that this chapter presents the least new material about the song, the chapter serves as a valuable and thorough exposition of the history of the song’s composition, performance, and reception; the problematics it presents; and its significant role in bringing Jerusalem to the fore of discourses on Israeli national identity.

Relationality and intersectionality (though not specifically named) resonate throughout City of Song, and Figueroa forefronts these most specifically in Chapter Five. Here, Figueroa spotlights Dan Almagor’s 1969 musical, My Jerusalem, as a counterpoint to the musical and poetic tropes most often employed in Zionist production of Jerusalem. Figueroa unpacks the “politics of difference” central to Jerusalem’s social life and critiques Almagor’s ostensibly heterotopic vision for the city. This chapter is the first I have seen in English to delve deeply into the entirety of this play.

I want to dig a little more into Figueroa’s discussion of how the symbolic trope of longing intersects with Israeli geopolitics, given how much is at stake in that intersection. Figueroa writes in Chapter One, “[I]t is important to examine the value of metaphorical Jerusalem within modern Jerusalem, where the ‘performance of metaphors of return’ take place in historical time, after the point of actual return to the material city” (46; italics in original, bold emphasis is mine). And in Chapter Four, discussing Naomi Shemer’s “Jerusalem of Gold”: “Shemer positions the Six- Day War as the teleological conclusion of a long narrative of Jewish history from the destruction of the First Temple, through diasporic wandering, into present-day Greater Israel, which now included most of the bible lands and Jerusalem” (168; bold is mine). Although symbolic longing seems to contradict the physical return of the Jewish people to terrestrial Jerusalem, the longing in fact maintains a purpose within the framework of Jewish sovereignty. Understanding this relationship is crucial to understanding the politics of the city and its cultural production. 

First, from a religious Jewish perspective, Jewish settlement and sovereignty over Jerusalem is only one step towards redemption. The rebuilding of the Temple and the Messianic age have not yet taken place; therefore, the redemption is not complete. Although most secular Israelis do not actually aspire to the Temple or to the Messiah, these symbols are still part of the Labor Zionist ethos that Figueroa focuses on; secular Zionism envisions the Messianic age as heralding an era of world peace. Take Naomi Shemer’s “Father’s Song” (Shiro shel Abba) from 1966: “If on the hill you have carved a stone to build a new building / It was not in vain, my brother, that you carved a new building / For from these stones the Temple will be rebuilt,” followed by the refrain, “It will be built, it will be built, the Temple will be built” (Yibane, yibane, yibane hamik’dash). [2] Or consider “Al Kapav Yavi” (On his palms he will bring; Yoram Teharlev/Yair Rosenblum, 1969), mentioning simple Jerusalemite workers (a carpenter, a shoemaker, and a builder) and their dream of heralding Elijah the Prophet and laying the cornerstone of the Holy Temple, asking in the refrain, “When will the day come?” Both songs are part of the canon of Jerusalem songs that continues to be sung in contexts where any Zionist song from the 1960s might be performed. The idea that the “return” is not yet complete explains the messianism of today’s Greater Israel settlement movement and the continuing use of the trope of longing during a period of Jewish sovereignty.

Second, and perhaps more importantly to the politics of the region, the longing for Jerusalem is not simply a product of being “absent” or “far away” that no longer exists once the distance has been crossed. Unlike the longing for a lover that no longer has a purpose once the lover returns home, it is the longing (together with Jewish victimization and need for security) that continues to justify the Zionist enterprise in the first place. The more than two thousand years of Jewish longing for Jerusalem is a key pillar in the construction of Jewish nationhood and is therefore one of the central points in the political justification for the State of Israel. This cannot be seen more explicitly in music than in the choice of text for the Israeli national anthem. [3] Longing and sovereignty may seem like contradictory notions, but the continuing salience of the relationship between them is crucial to Israeli culture and politics, and it needs more clarification than Figueroa provides.

The book is a richly detailed and theorized history-ethnography. However, it is limited in its exploration of the insider, regular, daily life sing-along repertoire of Jerusalemites today. Figueroa’s examples of recent formal performances and ceremonies are informative, yet to build a genealogy of Jerusalem song that continues into the ethnographic present, the methodology would benefit from including some additional songs (still within the time period he presents) that are frequently sung and performed by Jerusalem residents in community and neighborhood gatherings, sing-alongs, ceremonies, or spiritual/prayer events. (In some ways, “Jerusalem of Gold” has become so iconic that a community sing-along today in Israel wouldn’t necessarily include the song, the way it wouldn’t include the national anthem. It is programmed in specifically patriotic or Jerusalem-related performances. This trajectory highlights the change in performance over time; the song is not included nearly as often in shirah b’tzibbur today as one might expect given its scholarly attention.) Yediot Aḥronot published a book in 2004 with texts and commentaries on many such songs and poems, but it is only accessible to a Hebrew-speaking readership (and certainly does not contain sophisticated theoretical framing). [4]

In further ethnographic study or teaching of Jerusalem song, I might extend Figueroa’s method to encompass “Shuvi Bat Yerushalayim” (Dudu Barak/Nahum Heyman, 1962) that names many Jerusalem neighborhoods; “Or Viy’rushalayim” (Yossi Sarig, 1971) that evokes both light and sound/silence; and “Lekhol Ehad Yerushalayim” (Natan Yonatan/Moni Amarilio, 1975) that evokes a romanticized city of dreams, love, and sadness. I might also bring the later song, “Ani ve’Simon ve’Moise Hakatan” (Yossi Banai/ Hanan Yuvel, 1989), into dialogue with traditionally Zionist tropes of longing or with Almagor’s heterotopia. Most especially, “Hineni Kan” (I am here; Haim Hefer/Dov Seltzer), from Yehoram Gaon’s 1971 record, Ani Yerushalmi, has experienced a grand revival since Harel Skaat’s 2004 performance in the finals of the reality music competition, “A Star Is Born” (Kokhav Nolad), and was the feature song at the official Independence Day ceremony in 2023 (performed by Shiri Maimon). Including songs such as these that have a continuing place in the everyday life of contemporary Jerusalem would strengthen the historical narrative that brings Jerusalem song into the present.

Through musical study of one of the world’s most contested cities, Figueroa shows how today’s political conflicts have been shaped by a history of diverse and changing discourses, cultural imaginings, and musical representations. City of Song is a “historical study driven by the political concerns of the present” (5)—a most admirable and ambitious undertaking that Figueroa achieves with depth and nuance.

Dr. Tanya Sermer is faculty at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She also teaches at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion and serves as artistic producer of the Jerusalem Oratorio Choir.

[1] I should note that Figueroa includes Emmanuel Harussi’s “Tishrey Saba” in this discussion of Yishuv-era song. I believe the title (the poem’s first line) should be translated as “Grandpa Tishrey” (as in, the Hebrew month) and not “Grandfather’s Gifts” as written in the book. The month of Tishrey—signifying the warmth and joy of the autumn holiday season—turned its back and the winter is coming, already coughing, making the plight of the poor Jerusalemite child at the center of the story that much more dire.

[2] The second and third verses repeat the same pattern, replacing “carved a stone” with “planted cedars” and “sung me a song,” and are followed by the refrain, “the Temple will be built.”

[3] The text of “Hatikva,” written in 1878 by Naftali Herz Imber: As long as within the heart / the Jewish soul yearns / and forward to the East / the eye looks toward Zion, / Our hope is not yet lost, / the hope of two thousand years, / to be a free nation in our land, / the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

[4] Aner, Zeev and Roni Shir, eds., Yerushalayim Lanetzaḥ: Hashirim vehapizmonim, ha’atarim veha’anashim [Jerusalem Forever: The Songs and the Verses, the Sites and the People] (Yediot Aḥronot – Sifrey Ḥemed, 2004).