4th stop: 1974-1978
The Yom Kippur War
The End of Euphoria and the Road to Decline
The 1973 Yom Kippur War was the harshest of all Israel’s conflicts up to that point. It claimed a catastrophic toll of dead, wounded, and prisoners—numbers the Israeli public had never before encountered.
The war began with a surprise invasion by enemy armies from both the north and the south. It was a pre-emptive strike that the IDF was neither expecting nor properly prepared for. The military leadership was in total shock, eventually forced to rely on civilian mobilization to reorganize and halt the offensive.
It was the 'People’s Army’s' finest hour, a fateful time that put its very narrative to the test—and it rose to the challenge.
From the very first days of the war, a massive and urgent mobilization of reservists began, both from within Israel and from across the globe. Thousands of Israelis from every corner of the world flocked back, whether through emergency orders or by volunteering, to "get under the stretcher". They donned their uniforms and reinforced the army of which every citizen was a part.
The active battles ended after three weeks—without a decisive victory, but also without a clear defeat for either side. However, the state of war lingered for six months. During this time, Israeli society turned inward, enveloped in a somber atmosphere. The radio no longer broadcast songs of victory or hymns of praise. The gloom was accompanied by a soundtrack of sad, contemplative songs, carrying hopes for better days.
From the onset of the war and through the long months that followed, the entire cultural establishment entered emergency mode, mobilizing to adapt to the new reality.
As in previous war, entertainment stars gathered under the wings of patriotism to support the fighters. But this time, they did so with a restrained empathy necessitated by the harsh reality they witnessed. They performed before exhausted, dust-covered audiences—companies and battalions that had endured brutal battles and soldiers who had lost their closest friends.
Their audience—soldiers and reservists, young and old—desperately needed a morale boost. The civilian "stars" provided this without unnecessary fanfare. They left behind their fans and the luxuries they were accustomed to, giving solo performances or appearing in hastily assembled teams—duos, trios, and improvised ensembles.
Popular groups like Kaveret, along with icons like Arik Einstein, Shalom Hanoch, Yardena Arazi, Miri Aloni, Avi Toledano, Yigal Bashan, and Matti Caspi, all joined the effort. These were the "teen idols" whose hits had scorched the charts; whose photos filled entertainment weeklies; whose posters adorned every teenager's wall - now, they were performing on the back of trucks in the desert.
The military bands also took part in boosting morale, but their role had become secondary.
The bands were split into Small units and sent into the field. Without heavy equipment, cumbersome sets, sophisticated lighting, or multiple instruments, they performed stripped-down "numbers"—songs and sketches that attempted to be funny—before moving on to the next destination. Bound by a tight military schedule, by orders, hierarchy, and the mission for which they had been drafted into the IDF.
Like the entire army, the war caught the bands unprepared. Lacking fresh hits, they were forced to recycle old material, making them sound archaic and out of touch.
The young and inexperienced band members, around twenty years old, had no chance in the competition for the public’s heart against the drafted stars who came from civilian life to contribute to the war effort. Compared to the seasoned performers from the civilian world, these "singing soldiers" looked like raw recruits who hadn't yet gained enough "mileage" to be compelling. They lacked the celebrity glow—the "star dust" that their predecessors had carried during the euphoric years following previous wars.
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Performances by artists during the Yom Kippur War.
This is a documentation of leading Israeli civilian performers who appeared before soldiers in outposts, bases, and hospitals.
From a Mako Channel feature
The Yom Kippur War shattered the Israeli sense of euphoria in every aspect of life.
In the war’s aftermath—once the heavy human cost came to light and the IDF was forced to withdraw from the Suez Canal, territory conquered in the previous war—Israelis began to internalize the grim reality: thousands of soldiers killed or wounded.
Israeli society was thrust into a period of intense social and political turmoil. A State Commission of Inquiry (the Agranat Commission) was established to investigate who was responsible for the failure that led to the national disaster. Its conclusions pointed an accusing finger at the army and its senior officers..
The IDF was not defeated, but neither was it victorious. A heavy cloud hovered over Israel’s most hallowed ethos, shaking it from within. While the military remained an unquestionable consensus, its prestige had been tarnished. A profound systemic reckoning was now demanded across every command and corps—a call not only for structural reform but for a fundamental change in mindset.
When the investigation reached the headquarters responsible for military entertainment (the "Culture and Entertainment Branch") and the activity of the military bands was examined, the conclusions were stark: the bands were no longer fulfilling their original purpose. They were inhabiting a bubble that had expanded to unsustainable proportions.
Yet, the leadership could not bring themselves to "cut into the living flesh."
To the heads of the defense establishment and the General Staff, the military bands were a cherished symbol—a "Sabra" brand at the heart of Israeli culture, a kind of "nature reserve" that had to be preserved for future generations.
Recommendations for changing the format of the bands were written—but nothing was done with them.
The bands remained an inseparable part of the military landscape—as iconic as the Uzi submachine gun, as the distinctive field rations that fed soldiers in the field, as the combat rations used in the field, or the small pup tents they shared during training, as the grueling marches they endured. They were part of a fighting brotherhood that refused to fade, accompanied by the old, familiar songs.
"We must keep on playing" sang the Air Force Entertainment Team.
and many sang along, adding the song to the unique Israeli soundtrack that was taking shape and came to be called: "Hebrew Songs" (Shirim Ivriim).
"We Must Keep on Playing" (Muchrachim Le’hamshich Le’nagen)
Performed by the Air Force Band, 1974.
Click here or on the image
to watch and listen on YouTube.
Five years passed.
The IDF bands kept on playing through sheer inertia—recruiting new classes of soldiers and producing new programs. Some recycled old songs and sketches, while others attempted to embrace foreign musical styles. Every few months, they managed to sneak a song or two onto the hit parades, but none of this could return the military bands to the center of the stage.
Music editors and broadcasters treated them with the respect reserved for tribal elders. They played their new tracks for the sake of the "youth of yesterday"—hose who had grown up and settled into a comfortable middle-class life, yet still remembered the bands with a nostalgic grace. It was a nod to the national ethos, a gesture to those for whom the nostalgic charm of the bands had never faded.
For the younger generation, the bands didn't stand a chance.
To them, these performers were dinosaurs from a bygone era, completely disconnected from the music vibrating in the clubs and on the airwaves. The bands' albums were swallowed by the back shelves of record stores, buried under piles of local rock and international pop.
Soldiers—the bands' captive audience—now accepted these singing units with either indifference or as a matter of military command. They watched as young performers in uniform tried to elicit laughs with dated sketches about stern drill sergeants and broken-down trucks.
The "star dust" had dissipated from the bands just as it had from the IDF itself. Their entertainment had become a free commodity, part of the standard army package—ike the food, the transport, the ammunition, like the entire military way of life that would later accompany millions of Israelis as nostalgia.
During these years, a political earthquake struck Israel.
The 1977 election results brought an end to decades of Labor hegemony, ushering in a new leadership from the right. These leaders were not beholden to the socio-economic ideologies of the state's founders and shifted national priorities in nearly every field.
This political upheaval closed a chapter in Israeli history.
The transition was accompanied by a diverse new soundtrack that taking on a new form since the early 70s: a mix of rock, pop, Chassidic music, and Mizrahi music, all featuring high-end studio production.
In this vibrant, Western-inspired scene, the military bands were pushed even further to the margins. Their relevance had simply expired.
In 1978, a new Chief of Staff was appointed: Rafael "Raful" Eitan.
Almost immediately, he made a decisive move: abolishing the existing format of the military bands.
The decision was received with mixed feelings among the Israeli public.
While some welcomed it, many in the Israeli mainstream felt a profound sense of loss. These were the people for whom the nostalgic 'Hebrew Song' was the very soul of the Israeli experience—an inseparable part of their identity. Raised on the Zionist, secular heritage that glorified the Kibbutz, the Moshav, and the pioneers from Russia and Poland, they viewed the Chief of Staff as an agent of the new government, sent to shatter yet another beloved pillar of their identity.
Despite the public outcry, Raful did not back down.
The new Chief of Staff was known for being stubborn and ascetic—a no-nonsense leader who was utterly unimpressed by the glamour of show business. He had already initiated several steps with deep symbolic weight, such as ordering soldiers to wear their berets properly and insisting on the collection of spent shell casings... His goal was to shock the commanders out of their paralysis and bring the soldiers back into line," restoring discipline and efficiency to an army still reeling from the trauma of 1973.
Dismantling the bands was, in his eyes, another symbolic and meaningful step.
The dismantling was carried out without sentimentality.
In place of the lavish troupes and full orchestras, small, modest ensembles were formed, known as "Singing Groups" (Chavurot Zemer). No new programs, no original hits, no PR, and no albums for sale—just young soldiers in uniform, singing to raise the spirits of their comrades in the field.
Just as it once was, in the days before the state was born.
(Image/Video) Caption: A performance by the "IDF Choir" in its new, modest format, featuring the nostalgic program "One Hundred Years of Settlement" (1982). Click here or on the image to watch on YouTube.
A performance by the "IDF Choir" in its new, modest format, featuring the nostalgic program "One Hundred Years of Pioneering” (1982).
Click here or on the image to watch on YouTube.
The military bands have reached the end of the road," the media proclaimed, echoing the laments and eulogies of a generation mourning a piece of their culture they feared was gone forever.
Little did anyone imagine that these eulogies were premature.
Coming up in the next chapter:
This is a chapter from the musical monograph on Israel’s IDF military bands—an extraordinary cultural phenomenon that flourished between the wars and shaped the music and culture of Israel for over 40 years.
The full monograph spans eight separate chapters, including an introduction, summary, and table of contents. You can explore the complete series by clicking the link below: