How can you explain to non-Israelis who Arik Einstein was? How can you even come to terms with the fact that Arik Einstein "was" in the past tense? How can you possibly translate him to an equivalent in Americana?

Was he something like Bruce Springsteen? No, he wasn't. Bruce is "The Boss." Einstein was the exact opposite. Humble and horribly timid, he led a reclusive life in his apartment for more than 20 years. Retiring from public performances in 1981, he grew ever more distant, slowly disappearing, like a lost satellite sailing into the far and empty reaches of space. Yet paradoxically, he remained an unshakable anchor, a towering lighthouse of Israeli music, indeed, all things Israeli. He symbolized yesteryear's Israel — not the one that sanctifies land, but the one celebrating exuberant life, creativity, reticent humor and regular folks.

Is he our Frank Sinatra? Not really. Sinatra was smooth, Einstein was gritty. Was he a John Lennon? No, not really. Lennon was egocentric, self-absorbed, complicated and sophisticated. Einstein stood in diametric opposition. Not taking himself too seriously, he dispensed with protocol and attitude. He shunned pathos just as much as he shunned politics like the plague.

So maybe he is the Israeli Bob Dylan? Not quite. Dylan has never really personified the entire American nation. Einstein did. From his early performances in 1958 to his last day, Einstein was synonymous with all things Israeli, even though the Israel of the last two decades is not what it used to be. Demographics, newly religious Jews, the ongoing occupation, the transformation from a small and besieged country — the classic underdog — into a complacent and self-assured regional empire, all these left behind little of the once-upon-a-time face of Israel. Only Einstein remained: a majestic, distant, out-of-reach and almost mysterious monument.