From Ta-Shma to the stage.

Chuna Silverman grew up between two worlds — and decided not to choose.

Those two worlds could have lived on two different tracks. This music is what happened when they didn't.

Every song starts somewhere ancient — a verse, a prayer, a niggun half-remembered from a Shabbos table — and arrives somewhere new: trap drums, R&B chords, a pop hook you can't shake. The goal was never to modernize tradition. It was to let it breathe with chayus.

“Ta-Shma” means come and hear. That's the whole invitation. Press play.

Stream free The collection →

Music has always been part of my life.

One of my earliest memories is family vacations when I was about six years old, singing Julie Andrews' Do-Re-Mi together in the car. By the age of eight, I'd discovered Run-D.M.C., LL Cool J, and old-school hip hop. I was beatboxing all the time and annoying my mom and siblings. I loved rhythm, wordplay, and the challenge of expressing an idea in a way people could feel.

Growing up in New Jersey, I spent much of my time playing soccer with Hispanic kids. I had taken Spanish in school, and my mom, an American who taught Spanish, encouraged my interest in the language. Music, language, and friendship all seemed to come together naturally.

As a junior in high school, another student challenged me to a rap battle. A senior who made beats volunteered to judge. I still remember one of the lines that won it:

“You're second rate like your fake gold chain.” (it was the 90s)

That moment gave me confidence that songwriting wasn't just something I enjoyed—it was something I was made to do.

The following year, my life changed forever.

I discovered Chassidus.

Everything I loved about rhythm and lyrics suddenly had a purpose. Instead of writing simply because I loved words, I wanted to write about the soul, Torah, and a Jew's relationship with Hashem.

After two years at Hadar HaTorah, significant mental health struggles brought that chapter of my life to an unexpected end. Returning to Morristown wasn't what I had planned, but it became the beginning of my musical journey. During those years, I recorded a homemade a cappella album for Sefirah, duplicated about fifty CDs, and sold them for five dollars each.

Around that time, I was visiting the yeshivah in Morristown for Purim when one of the students said to me, “There's a rapper in yeshivah who wants to perform a Purim shpiel. You should beatbox, Chuna.”

That rapper was Menachem Dovid Shapiro (MD), a gifted lyricist.

We had never met before.

Our first performance together was completely impromptu. MD performed the Purim piece he had written for his classmates, and I added live beatboxing. In the audience that day was a physician preparing for his daughter's wedding. After the performance, he approached us and invited us to perform at the wedding.

What began as a chance meeting and an impromptu Purim performance eventually grew into a larger production we called Jacob's Ladder.

Around that same time, one of my homemade Sefirah CDs found its way to MD's cousin, producer Dan Seliger of 12 Tribe Sound. Dan had recently worked with Matisyahu, and before long I was in the studio with recording engineer Alon. I invited MD to join me, and together we recorded Come Listen, released in 2006.

After getting married in 2005, I moved to Crown Heights. Around the time the album was coming together, I was at a Shabbos meal where I met someone who would permanently change the way I sang.

Her name was Miriam Arman.

Years earlier, what drew me to Chassidus wasn't just the ideas—it was hearing deep concepts explained with depth and certainty. Listening to Miriam talk about the voice gave me that same feeling. She wasn't talking about vocal exercises. She was talking about the voice as though there was an entire world inside it. I knew I wanted to learn from her.

That evening, she offered the host's son a free voice lesson and mentioned that she had written a book. I didn't ask for anything. I bought the book.

About four months later, I was at another Shabbos table when the opportunity came. I sang my piece from Jacob's Ladder.

When I finished, she smiled and said,

“You just earned yourself a free lesson.”

I smiled to myself.

“Yes, ma'am.”

I expected one lesson.

She gave me three.

When the third lesson ended, I thanked her and assumed that was it. I didn't call her afterward. I wasn't about to ask for a bigger handout.

About a week later, Miriam called me.

She wanted to know why I hadn't reached out to schedule another lesson.

She asked what kind of arrangement we could work out. I explained that I simply couldn't afford lessons.

She asked me to promise not to tell anyone.

Then she quietly told me she wanted to give me a ten-lesson scholarship.

Those lessons transformed my voice and changed the way I approached singing forever.

After the release of Come Listen, mental health challenges made performing on stage increasingly difficult. While I stepped away from performing, I never stopped writing or searching for the right producer—someone who could hear the music the way I heard it.

After a ten-year hiatus and a move to Kingston, Pennsylvania, the search finally led me to producer John Shimp.

Together we released He's Alone, the beginning of a new chapter. More music is already on the way.

The name ChaYuS Music reflects what I hope every song carries. In Chassidus, chayus means life—not merely existing, but living with purpose, connection, and soul.

If my music has a mission, it's to give voice to the struggles, questions, hope, faith, and longing that so many of us carry. If a song helps someone feel understood, inspired, or just a little more alive, then it has done exactly what I hoped it would do.

Thanks for listening,

Chayus Music.