Kaddish: Prayer for the Dead


Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world
which She has created according to Her will.

May She establish Her kingdom in your lifetime and during your days,
and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon;
and say, Amen.

May Her great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.

Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored,
adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be She,
beyond all the blessings and hymns, praises and consolations that
are ever spoken in the world; and say, Amen.

May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us
and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

She  who creates peace in Her celestial heights,
may She create peace for us and for all Israel;
and say, Amen.




Allen Ginsberg

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer—
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn—
Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse,
the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed….





The June 1967 article I published in Hebrew from Israel

Prologue. In June of 1967, I arrived in Israel with the intention of fighting in the Six Day War. I had been raised on tales of the 1948 War of Independence when such presumed heroics really did result in volunteers being given a Sten gun immediately after leaving the ship as it docked in Jaffa harbor. I had arrived at Tel Aviv airport with these expectations. My jet from Athens was the first commercial airline to land in the country’s airport. My timing was perfect. I kissed the ground on day four when hostilities were still taking place at the Syrian border.
Golan Heights, Israel/Syrian border, June, 1967


However, as Talleyrand said to Napoleon, “You can do anything with bayonets except sit on them.”


Instead, I was handed a large shovel on a dairy farm in the South. While shoveling manure, an astonishingly beautiful and elegant member of the community asked me to write an article for the local newspaper. I wrote the article in English and I helped her translate it. By then, I had acquired a new word to add to my vocabulary. Electricity.

The grandfather who had taken over the farm while his son-in law was in a tank in the Sinai desert said “Don’t touch that fence.” Being a college boy, I asked “Why?” Touching the fence, I found out. Subsequently, I became an agriculture expert.

N.B. The next requirement for Israel as always is peace. As Talleyrand said to Napoleon, “You can do anything with bayonets except sit on them.”
Published in the Kfar Warburg community newspaper, June 1967
Translation by Mike Germise with assistance from Ortal Zannani who answered a call from the blue, i.e. State College, PA, responded to my request that she scan an article I had published 50 years previously and helped Mike read the words which had escaped clarity after being scanned. 


Following is a note written by Joel Solkoff, one of the volunteers from abroad who came to help us: The country reminded me of a beautiful woman sunbathing outside who is aware of all those watching her. The country dressed up and at times seemed as if it wanted to kiss me.

The plane landed in Tel Aviv and the “angry young man” who decided to go to war reached his destination. On Monday he was in New York, on Tuesday in Paris, on Wednesday in Athens and on Thursday in Tel Aviv. He reached his destination but there was no war, and other than taped window panes and small tents on the side of the road leading from the airport, Tel Aviv looked like Paris.

But if I couldn’t fight I could at least work. Now I am in Kfar Warburg and for the first time in my life I shoveled manure from the cow shed. I can see the Hills of Judea from this shed. The work is clean because the cows are worth working for.

Life is good here, the land is good and the air is very good and years of hard labor created a land that is worth fighting for. But while the nation deserves praise, it doesn’t need it. Because the workers know what work they did. The soldiers know that they won tremendous victories.

It seems that the land is nothing, therefore we shouldn’t pile on the praise because excessive praise leads to conceit, and a nation that rests on its victories and refuses to face its failures may suffer a defeat.

I saw the tears and the anxiety each news broadcast brought. I understand this may seem strange, my view of Israel and Kfar Warburg seems stereotyped, but this settlement was established by people from the Diaspora. The people who came to Israel and built it up know what they left behind and why they came. I am also from the Diaspora, and I think I can understand these people better than the sabras [native born Israelis] can.

When I knew I was finally coming to Israel I cried for hours – I who had not cried for years. The “uncles” [the name for volunteers from abroad] are experiencing a certain disappointment we missed the war. Such disappointment belongs to the young. These were the feelings of people who wanted to fight, who came to Israel to help.

Last night, when a soldier asked me how much I had managed to see of Israel, I answered as far at the Hills of Judea, and that was only from the cow shed. His answer was that salvation would not come from the Hills of Judea. Therefore, as long as shoveling manure is considered clean work, the country is worth devoting your soul to it.


From: Joel Solkoff
Date: Tue, Jul 4, 2017 at 6:27 AM

Subject: 1967 Kfar Warburg volunteer connects
To: Ortal


It was a pleasure talking to you this morning/afternoon.

This might help:


Also, this unpublished remembrance which I wrote last week. I mention here the article I published in June 1967 in Hebrew in the local publication at Kvar Warburg. The headline in the article had the word “uncle/dod” which was the term used for volunteers.


From where I sit, 10:50 Saturday morning, June 24, 2017.

In four months, I will be 70 years old.

For some things, my memory is excellent. Not for names, dates, street names or…

I remember events with great clarity. Fifty years ago, I was working on a dairy farm in southern Israel. I had arrived at the Tel Aviv airport on day four of the Six Day War. The jet that flew me from Athens to Israel was the first commercial plane to arrive in the country since the war began. The airport Lod (since renamed Ben Gurion) had been taken over by the military.

Pup tents were set up all along the runways. Soldiers carrying machine guns were everywhere. After receiving a stamp on my passport, I awaited a bus with a beautiful blonde nurse and her friend from Scandinavia who also had dropped everything when they read the news that Israel was under attack. Now we were boarding a bus to downtown, nowhere to go, no idea of what would happen next.

The driver asked for bus fare. I gave him all the money I had in my pocket.

A small number of cars were on the streets in the most populous city. There was something strange about their headlights. The three of us found ourselves in a government office being served breakfast by grateful Israelis who could not stop telling us how pleased they were that we had arrived. Over yoghurt, fruit, humus, pita, Turkish coffee, eggs, fish…[the food kept coming], they told sad stories of Jews leaving Israel in a panic fearful of being trapped.

Our hosts had arranged for our transportation to Herzliya, a resort slightly north of the city, where the Jewish Agency had set up headquarters for the volunteers who would soon be swarming in—volunteers like the ones I had left behind in Paris awaiting Jewish Agency assistance before arrival. The three of us sat staring at the beautiful Mediterranean while officials—who had taken over the then empty resort—assigned us.

I was assigned to Kvar Warburg, a moshav, a dairy farm near Ashkelon in the South. By nightfall, I was asleep on a lumpy coach in the living room of an extended family. The grandfather and grandmother were the only observant Jews in the community. Their son-in-law, the head of the family, was still in the Sinai Dessert having fought in a battle that revolutionized tank warfare for over a generation. His wife had introduced me to their minor children as an “uncle”—uncles and aunts being the ubiquitous term for the volunteers who would soon be entering the country.

Friday (the following morning), I was in the cow shed shoveling large quantities of manure as I stared at the Judean Hills. Far to the North, members of the Israeli Defense Forces were dying as they stormed upward Syria’s Golan Heights where our enemies had lobbed bombs on the Israeli farms below.

The five other volunteers who had been assigned to Kvar Warburg were British mercenaries having served on what I regarded as the wrong side in conflicts in Africa and elsewhere eager to fight regardless of the cause. Within a week, an elegant astonishingly beautiful editor of the community newsletter had coaxed me into writing an article for her publication.

Later in the month, Shmuel (I think that was his name) returned from his tank. An enterprising farmer convinced the moshav to assign my labor to him. The farmer arrived and with dispatch scooped me up and relocated me to his home, wife, and two daughters. The farmer was the most enterprising fellow in town. At his cow shed, he had contrived a parlor. Instead of the horizontal shed, where it was necessary to bend down to affix the milking machines to the utters, the head of my new family had contrived an improvement. Thirsty and hungry the cows approached his shed. Only, they went up an incline in his parlor so the cows were above the farmer’s head and he did not have to bend down to milk them. Perhaps, this was my nascent agriculture expertise.

Later in June, 1967 it seemed as if the whole country was Jerusalem-bound. For the first time since 1948, Jews could go to our holiest spot—the Western Wall of the Temple. The Jordanians had put land mines around the Wall. To avoid the danger, the military had constructed a new road to make it safe for the throngs to reach the Wall.

As we joyfully walked the new route from the spot where by tradition King David had written the Psalms to the Wall, the farmer asked me to take a photograph of him with his family. I positioned the camera, stepped back to get all four in the picture. I found myself standing in the middle of a mine field passersby agape and pointing.


Thank you so much for your help.

Best wishes,

Joel Solkoff

יואל סולק



Language of Our People

“I began researching this book in Los Angeles, as a UCLA/Mellon Fellow. For the opportunity to read Sholem Aleichem on the Santa Monica boardwalk (and have ‘Vos makht a yid’ shouted at me by a roller-skating passerby), my thanks…”
--from the Acknowledgements section, The Worlds of Sholem Aleichem by Jeremy Dauber.


This is not a book review;

It is a Jeremy-Dauber influenced polemic. As with any polemic, its message should fit on a bumper sticker; namely, Learn Yiddish. As with many a polemicist, it would be helpful if I took my own advice. However, that is another story.

This story begins in Miami Beach in 1959. I was 12 years old celebrating Passover at the home of Lee Rosenhouse who had been my classmate since first grade at the other end of town—South Beach when South Beach was run down and before it became rediscovered and chic. Lee and I attended the Hebrew Academy—Hebrew being the operative word. When Rabbi Alexander S. Gross founded the Academy in a renovated Protestant Church in 1947, the Hebrew he taught was Ashkenazi. By the time we were in third grade, our teachers shifted our pronunciation to Sephardi in keeping with the official Israeli pronunciation of Hebrew. One consequence is that our pronunciation of Hebrew was a mishmash described as Ashke-Sephardi.

Rabbi Gross was something of a heretic and certainly a visionary. Years later when I read Louis Auchincloss’ Rector of Justin I learned that my rabbi/principal was indeed a Jewish rector whose vision—despite the Maimonides-ordained orthodoxy of our morning classes—was Hebrew and a secular manifestation of Hebrew at that.

Hebrew and Yiddish. Yiddish and Hebrew. Lee and I were part of an effort that swept our Jewish community abandoning Yiddish, the language of exile, in favor of a new world order symbolized by the Israeli flag displayed every morning in the Academy playground where first we saluted the U.S. flag and next we sang Hatikvah, the Israeli national anthem. The anthem’s initial word means “The Hope.”

The contrast between Hebrew and Yiddish (the hopeful new world order vs. the old culture—which, as Lee and I saw it had kept us enslaved) expressed itself in 1959 at the Rosenhouse sedar table when Lee’s mother and father (Estelle and Mose) swapped dirty jokes with my mother. The jokes were in Yiddish. We did not understand. This was, as we saw it, the old order unfairly keeping from us (whose Hebrew was recent and hard-won) some secret magic.


It is possible you speak neither Hebrew nor Yiddish and you may have little appreciation for the language wars I am here describing. Let me start with the basics we students expressed quite clearly on the Hebrew Academy playground in the form of a question. “If the U.S. and Israel were to fight in a war which side would you be on?”

A generation later my younger daughter Amelia Altalena (whose middle name is fraught with meaning) told me, “You were willing to fight for Israel but not for the United States” over simplifying. Fifty years ago—on June 8, 1967 to be specific—I arrived in Israel eager to fight in the Six Day War. Three months later I reluctantly returned to New York to continue college because Israel (then overwhelmed with volunteers) did not want me. In 1967, the U.S. Supreme Court had not yet granted me the right to be a dual citizen although despite outward reality I am one. After I returned to New York, my draft board acceded to my request for conscientious objector status. I would not participate in Vietnam. It was an evil war.

It is not, as Amelia Altalena intimates, that my loyalties are divided. My loyalties are clear. The clarity I am trying to define here are my loyalties to the Jewish people. Yes, I believe in God. Increasingly, I find my Jewishness includes prayer saying as I do Modeh Ani when I arise. My loyalty (God is incidental) as a Jew is defined by two distinctly secular ideologies; namely, Zionism and the revival of the Hebrew language. Personified, my loyalties are to Theordor Herzl (who married, as I did, a non-Jew) and Eleizer ben Yehuda who assembled THE modern Hebrew dictionary and whose children were stoned by the Orthodox community because his children spoke Hebrew in the streets at a time when the community believed Hebrew belonged exclusively to the synagogue.


Yes, this polemic begins with the insistence we all learn Yiddish. However, it is based on the assumption that first we Jews must master Hebrew. While I will return to the 1959 Miami Beach sedar table, it is first necessary to introduce you to two larger than life men whose ability to master multiple languages I urge you to emulate. They are David Ben Gurion and Vladimir Jabotinsky. I like to think of them (at least initially) as frozen in time in 1918 serving together in the Jewish Legion—an early effort like the Zion Mules Corps that preceded it intended to prove that Jews (despite a reputation for being non-resisting victims of anti-Semitism) could fight.

Enter my parents at the end of the Second World War that followed the First. Miriam and Isadore met at a synagogue meeting intended to introduce the variety of groups that described themselves as Zionists. My mother was attracted to the socialist movement led by Ben Gurion. My father was a leader of the capitalist indeed militarist movement founded by Jabotinsky who died in 1940 and was led (when my parents met) by Jabotinsky’s disciple Menachem Begin. It may be true that opposites attract, but as Mother and Dad would make quite clear, not for long.

The one reality that united Mother and Father was Hebrew. When she was still pregnant with me, Mother graduated from two colleges, Hunter and a now-defunct Hebrew college in New York where she received a bachelor’s degree in Hebrew. When Mother was in her early Sixties, she received a doctorate in Hebrew letters from the Jewish Theological Seminary. Between degrees, Mother was a Hebrew school teacher and principal. Before Mother died from dementia, I spoke to her in Hebrew, the only language she still understood.

My father’s Hebrew was ideological. Isadore was a follower of Jabotinsky; indeed, so it says on his headstone. Isadore’s love for Jabotinsky and his movement was intense. When I was eight, my father began reading to me the Balfour Declaration providing over the years his special interpretation. Isadore was fond of repeating the story of Jabotinsky’s insistence the World Zionist Congress change the language of its proceedings from Yiddish to Hebrew. Not knowing Hebrew, Jabotinsky insisted the Congress learn the language storming out of the hall insisting he would not return until he was able to speak in Hebrew. In my childhood recollection of the story, it took Jabotinsky 15 minutes to learn Hebrew.

The temptation here is to linger—to tell stories of Hayyim Nahman Bialik, the Walt Whitman of Modern Hebrew and Shmuel Yosef Agnon whose Chekov-like tales of Jews in exile caused him to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1966—the only Hebrew author to win a Nobel. I am tempted also  to further describe the hatred Ben Gurion and Jabotinsky, two Zionist giants, felt for each other. The point here is language and language facility.

I am fond of the story of Ben Gurion, certainly a show off, practicing yoga in front of reporters on his kibbutz in the Negev. Among the languages Ben Gurion had mastered was ancient Greek. When he was alive, he had the reputation for being alone in the world at being able to recite by heart the plays of Sophocles. Indeed, he was fond of doing so while standing on his head and interrupting himself to answer reporters questions about politics.

Similarly, Jabotinsky’s language command included Italian, Russian, and English. Jabotinsky wrote a screen play on Samson and Delilah which Hollywood turned into a film starring Victor Mature. Of course, both Ben Gurion and Jabotinsky spoke Yiddish.

Who we are as Jews is tied strongly to our ability to move globally and speak a variety of languages. It is worth noting that in The Brain that Changes Itself, Dr. Norman Doidge’s popularization of current brain research, Dr. Doidge asserts that a key for the aging to avoid senility is to learn a new language. At 69 and a grandfather, my focus is on teaching diligently to our children. Jewish parents in the U.S., first have your children master Hebrew, then Yiddish, then aspire to learn more languages.

As my father got older he repented his decision not to teach me Yiddish. Isadore asked me to watch Fiddler on the Roof, the musical based on Sholem Aleichem’s story. “It is about my people,” he pleaded, “It describes the community where I was born.” Fiddler was trendy then and I am a snob. I hesitated. Shortly before my father entered the Jewish Home for the Aged in Miami, I finally watched Fiddler and told him so. “It is too late,” he said.

As it turns out, this is not a review of Columbia Professor Jeremy Dauber’s excellent biography of Shalom Aleichem. It is instead, a plea to preserve what we are losing of our culture as exemplified by Mose, Estelle, and Lee Rosenhouse at their sedar table in 1959. For my mother—who for much of my childhood was a single parent—Lee’s large extended family sitting around the table on Passover represented the home Mother longed for but never had.

Describing the joy the adults felt as they taunted the children by speaking Yiddish only begins to describe a Jewish world quickly disappearing. Everyone around the table is dead. Mose, head of household, represented the father and husband Mother never had. A politician and a prominent attorney, when Mose died, the Miami Herald featured his obituary on page one. Mose had come to Miami from Milton, a small town on the Florida panhandle where kosher meat was trucked in from Chicago and being Jewish meant speaking Yiddish.

Shalom Aleichem.

--Joel Solkoff

[Joel Solkoff is the author of The Politics of Food and Learning to Live Again, My Triumph Over Cancer.]

Are Farmers in PA Spilling Milk Because the Price is Too Low?

Rep. Elise Stefanik (R-NY-21) reports farmers in her district are spilling milk because the price is too low. When I was 19, I worked on a dairy farm. The work is hard. After milking twice a day (sometimes more), I cannot imagine spilling it. I have a mental picture of my grandmother at the dinner table urging me to finish saying, “I can’t send it to the starving people of Europe.”


"No cows were harmed during the making of this video."


Now Europe too is awash in milk it cannot consume. Throughout the developed world surplus is the curse of our time. Meanwhile, there are reports of tens of millions starving in southern Africa. A child in Yemen dies of starvation every 10 minutes. Despite Trump’s proposal to halt international food relief, the continuing resolution the President signed recently increases food aid by $1 billion.

After a visit with dairy farmers in Wisconsin, the President ordered trade measures to punish Canadian milk producers. Canada’s dairy farmers also are blessed/cursed with this bizarre reality: In my lifetime genetic research has vastly increased production.

In April, I spoke with Rep. Glenn (GT) Thompson (R-PA-5). Thompson, Deputy Chair of the House Agriculture Committee, says, “It is likely Pennsylvania farmers in are spilling milk in manure ditches.”

Rep. Glenn (GT) Thompson–R, PA,5–is ready for any fire. It is a good thing too because as Deputy Chair of the House Agriculture Committee he must be prepared for any emergency when trying to pass the Farm Bill next year.

One consequence of Trump’s dairy experience is he nearly began a major trade war with Canada. Trade with Canada is critical to the U.S. economy. It is especially critical to our farmers’ dependence upon exports for sustenance. Fortunately, a cooler head than Trump’s prevailed. Trump’s agriculture secretary Sonny Perdue convinced the President to abandon his original plan to cancel the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). Cancellation would have meant grain and soybean farmers in the Mid-West would lose badly needed income were exports to Canada (and yes, Mexico) consequently reduced.


The President’s economic advisers would do well to prepare our President with such basic information as this.


In August, my younger daughter Amelia Altalena married a sergeant in the Spanish Army. Last month, I spoke with Rachel Bickford, our agricultural attaché at the Madrid embassy. Bickford said that as in Pennsylvania, dairy farming in Spain is characterized by the dominance of farmers with large herds. This summer, my occupational therapist told of his visits to elderly Pennsylvania dairy farmers and their widows and widowers. After a lifetime of hard work, they do not receive the health benefits available to retired urban workers.


My occupational therapist (who is based in central PA) tells me that this dated photograph conveys the misery he experiences in 2017 when working with elderly dairy farmers.


Agriculture Secretary Purdue’s predecessor Thomas Vilsack (who supported Perdue’s nomination) now works as an executive for dairy agribusiness. Meanwhile, small dairy farmers—dependent on inadequate payments under the current farm bill cannot make ends meet (to put it mildly). The farm bill currently being drafted for renewal next year will not change that.

Government payments are not the solution. Protectionist measures severely limiting imports (including foreign cheeses–a favorite of the urban coffee house set) only raise consumer prices. Required are pensions and health assistance to elderly dairy farmers who must perform work neither needed nor appreciated in areas remote to health care. Required are training programs, such as Rep. Thompson has been establishing, that train the children and grandchildren of dairy farmers for work in a global economy.

–Joel Solkoff, author The Politics of Food. https://joelsolkoff.com/book-store/books/the-politics-of-food/


Related Posts

Exclusive Interview with Rep. GT Thompson on his Rehabilitation Background

Secretary Perdue: Prepare your grandchildren to debate my granddaughter


The hotlink for Background will take you to your Senate confirmation hearing.  Please note:

1. All your grandchildren were in attendance.

2. As you know, you have 14 grandchildren.

3. I only have one grandchild.

4. When it comes to grandchildren, you would appear to have what I regard as an unfair numerical advantage.

5. You are only one year older than I and yet you are 13 grandchildren ahead of me.

6. Clearly you began the process of populating grandchildren by becoming a parent early in life.

7. I did not become a parent until I was in my 30s when I worried about whether I had the skills to be a parent. My first daughter Joanna was born in 1984. My second  daughter Amelia Altalena was born in 1990 and she was born two months early which scared the hell out of me. I still have not forgiven Amelia Altalena for her impatience.

8. One reason for my delay in preparing for the next generation was my treatment for a once fatal form of cancer: Hodgkin’s Disease.

9. [Note: This Section will be completed later.]


Debate details.

1. The purpose of the debate is to serve as a model perhaps even as a

Syllabus in development to encourage education of global food policy at a time where the vast majority of our country is removed both physically and conceptually from the farms where our food and the world’s food is produced.

2. Conceived in a lighthearted fashion, the idea of a debate between grandchildren and perhaps it may amuse you as well.

3. Never before in our history has the estrangement between…

Concert 1965: Beatles, Stones, Animals, Seekers et al.

Mick 1965




Set list:
0:00:38 — Hey Bo Diddley — Moody Blues
0:05:56 — Go Now — Moody Blues
0:09:30 — Pretty One — Freddie & the Dreamers
0:11:45 — A Little You — Freddie and the Dreamers
0:13:59 — Walking the Dog — Georgie Fame
0:16:32 — I’ll Never Find Another You — The Seekers
0:18:36 — A World of Our Own — The Seekers
0:21:16 — Wonderful World — Herman’s Hermits
0:23:03 — Mrs. Brown — Herman’s Hermits
0:25:51 — Funny How Love Can Be — The Ivy League
0:27:51 — Time for You — Sounds Incorporated
0:29:58 — The Game of Love — Wayne Fontana
0:32:24 — Just a Little Bit Too Late — Wayne Fontana
0:34:51 — Everybody Needs Somebody — Stones
0:35:29 — Pain in My Heart — Rolling Stones
0:37:32 — Around and Around — Rolling Stones
0:39:56 — The Last Time — Rolling Stones
0:42:58 — Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah — Cilla Black
0:45:12 — You’re Gonna Need Somebody — Donovan
0:49:23 — Catch the Wind — Donovan
0:51:49 — Here Comes the Night — Them
0:54:34 — Turn on Your Love Light — Them
1:00:48 — Let the Good Times Roll — Searchers
1:02:38 — Mockingbird — Dusty Springfield
1:05:04 — Boom Boom — Animals
1:09:09 — Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood — Animals
1:11:34 — Talkin’ ‘Bout You” / ”Shout — Animals
1:16:22 — I Feel Fine — Beatles
1:19:24 — She’s a Woman — Beatles
1:22:14 — Baby’s in Black — Beatles
1:24:32 — Ticket to Ride — Beatles
1:27:46 — Long Tall Sally — Beatles
1:29:49 — You Really Got Me — Kinks
1:32:02 — Tired of Waiting for You — Kinks

If curious, the goal of this version of the video was to take the original 2-hour concert footage (linked below) and make it a more enjoyable 90mins. So these changes were made:

— The excessive talking and song breaks were removed (except band names announced)
— Multi-band compression (analog) evened out volumes, esp. recovering lost bass
— Video black levels restored
— Video is slightly zoomed in to remove some of the square aspect ratio
— Since the vocals were still too far forward, even after compression, a slight plate stereo reverb was added (only in the vocal range frequencies) to pull the singing back into the music, helping to both congeal the mix and also widen the feel. The effect excites the vibe a bit and gives more of the fun radio sound.

For more by Dave Nevins visit: