The Esquires “Get on Up” / “Listen to Me”

Two songs from The Esquires, each 2:25! On Bunky Records—first Bunky label I’ve seen—I looked it up, out of Chicago. “Get On Up” is an upbeat, R&B song, a dance number, with the singing in falsetto, and then a lower voice answering, “Get on up”—it’s effective. It was a hit song in 1967. I don’t remember it, but it’s possible I heard it. The Esquires were a soul band from Milwaukee—they started playing in the Fifties, even, played throughout the Sixties, into the Seventies, moved to Chicago at some point and put out some records. The B-side, “Listen to Me,” is also very good—a different sound, different vocal style, very emotional. I looked to see if both these songs were on YouTube—they are—and I don’t usually read the “comments” (I usually avoid them), but one under this song caught my eye—someone said they played the song in their band, the Perfections, in Sandusky, Ohio, in the Sixties. That got my attention because I grew up there, and I’m always interested in any bit of history about my hometown. I knew nothing about the music scene there, of course, at that time (not yet 10 years old)—I don’t remember any local bands from that time. Plus, I lived kind of out in the country. But it’s fascinating to think about.

I love the band name, The Esquires—it’s such a classic name, and also very cool, and not ridiculous, like so many band names. There must have been a few “Esquires” over time. I wonder what people did back before there was the internet, if they wanted to find out if their prospective band name had been taken? I guess, just went for it. It’s a word with a funny history (I’m not going into it), and not too long ago, I think, attorneys used it as part of their title, but now I get the feeling that’s seen as pretentious. I used to write “Esq.” after my name, when I was a goofball kid. It’s the name of Fender electric guitar (one not unlike the Telecaster), and of course there’s that men’s magazine which used to be pretty prominent in the magazine days. These Esquires wore very cool matching suits when they performed (judging by internet photos). This is another record that I have no idea how I got it—though I do live in Milwaukee, and likely picked it up here. Maybe one of my record collector friends gave it to me—it’s in pristine condition—definitely not one of the 45’s that were sitting on top of my refrigerator in a basket. I’ll play it whenever I want to dance—though I rarely dance at home—and it’s a bit labor-intensive changing the record every 2:25. That’s 45’s for you.

American Radio Warblers “Dancing Doll” / “My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice”

This 45 is a couple of songs by the American Radio Warblers, the “Original Feathered Stars of the Air.” They were canaries—their names: Bobby, Steve, Dick, Fred, Jim, Jerry, David, Lew, Randy, and Al. Just kidding—that’s Blood, Sweat & Tears. No, this is birds and organ, okay? Organ and birds! I have to know more, so I’ll see what I can find on ye ol’ ’nternet. They were on the radio, the Mutual Broadcasting System, weekends, out of Chicago—broadcast from 1937 to 1952, created by Arthur C. Barnett. The Warblers were ten canaries, caged, of course, who were somehow encouraged to sing in accompaniment of popular songs played on Wurlitzer organ by Preston Sellers. Or, more accurately, Sellers accompanied the birds—seeing how they are top-billed. The organ sounds like it’s coming from the “auditorium,” while we’re in the “aviary,” I guess—it’s far off—and the birds are in our face. Organ tune with the birds singing over the top—really, they’re mixed perfectly—getting the right mix is/was probably easier said than done. I imagine the show was tremendously popular, and I’m certain if it was on now, and we weren’t all distracted by all the dumb shit we’re now distracted by, it would be a hit. If people still had radios. There is a dark side, however—the entire purpose of the show was as an advertisement to sell bird seed. Though, I suppose, compared to the advertisements we have to endure, present day, that’s not dark at all, but wistfully pleasant. Fortunately, some of these shows were recorded and preserved on records, including the indestructible 45 RPM single format—one of which somehow found its way into my hands.

5 Stairsteps & Cubie “Love’s Happening”

I didn’t know this band at all, and saw a beat-up copy of this LP in an antique store—but it plays fine and sounds good. It reminded me of the Jackson 5 on the first song, but then I don’t know the Jackson 5 other than the hits, and they were a few years later? Most of the songs are by Curtis Mayfield, and are all good, plus he’s the producer. They are proclaimed “The First Family of Soul” on the back of the record, so I’ll buy it—they even list their names and ages on back, kids from 15 to 19, plus Cubie who’s 3, and called “the old man.” I love the picture on the cover, the 1968 fashions—and it looks like it’s taken in the storage room of a department store—some truly bizarre details in this photo—something that would never happen now in this age of overthinking, over editing, over photoshopping. The little guy, I assume that’s Cubie, is wearing a yellow, red, and blue Mondrian scarf—I swear I had that same scarf when I was about the age of this record! It’s on Curtis Mayfield’s “Curtom” label, and the label art is very cool—kind of bizarre—there’s what looks like a tiny scorpion as part of the logo. “Don’t Change Your Love” jumps out as a killer song. But I like them all. They’re be an upbeat number, then a slower, more soulful one, back and forth, and that works well here. I like this record a lot, second or third time through, I’m liking it more. This is the best four dollars I’ve spent in awhile—I think I’ll keep this one out for listening.

Chicago “Chicago”

I bought a late-Seventies Chicago record when I was in high school and was so-so about it, then later I just didn’t like them at all, so it was a surprise to me when, a few years ago, I found myself compulsively listening to some of their early stuff, especially the hits. I bought this 1970 record, titled “Chicago” (but also referred to as Chicago II, I guess, because it’s their second LP) from a $4 bin—mostly fascinated because the cover was thin cellophane over what looks like a badly photocopied cover, and the label is this really exotic, old, Asian looking, beautiful silver printing on red, called “First.” What was it? I looked it up when I got home, and it turns out it’s from Taiwan, maybe legit, maybe a bootleg, who knows. I thought it might be unlistenable, but for $4, I was just curious. It turns out that it’s not only listenable, but a great record with great sound. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not (and my stereo system is an ongoing adventure in inconsistency), but weirdly it sounds better than any other record—just really lush and warm. How much that has to do with the pressing, and how much is just the recording, playing, songs—I have no idea. One thing about the band, Chicago, that I really like, is how uncomplicated their early recordings are, while being tremendously complex—you know, in song structure and arrangements—but just all really organic sounding.

I finally got curious and consulted the internet about these Taiwanese pressings, and sure enough, people talk about the sound quality being really good. I didn’t want to go down that particular rabbit-hole though—you’ve got to protect yourself, you know, from the old rabbit-holes—but I did note that someone talked about the weird cellophane covered album covers that are just like covers printed on the back of other things and then wrapped in this plastic. Then, looking closely at the cover of this Chicago record, I could see this faint writing coming through, and it said: “Shaft’s Big Score!” So then I had to cut the plastic away to see what was going on, and it turns out the Chicago cover is printed on very thin paper, and the inner structure of the album cover is made up of a Taiwanese printed “Shaft’s Big Score!” LP, and a divider (it’s a double record) in the middle is the cover of “Blood, Sweat & Tears 3.” Just really bizarre. Anyway, not ever having heard this record, except for some of the hit songs, I just kind of thought maybe the whole thing was some kind of random bootleg collection, but as it turns out, it’s just their second record, and it is kind of bizarre, just all over the place, but really great from beginning to end. They sure were pretty ambitious for a new band. I guess their first few records were double records, like they just didn’t realize that most sane bands primarily put out single records. At first they were called Chicago Transit Authority, but wisely chose to shorten the name (seeing how it’s even more syllables than ELO, and probably could foresee a career of rock journalists’ cleverness: “elevated” or “missed the bus”) to Chicago, and adopted that dumb script logo that looks like the sign for a deli, or something printed on a fat guy’s softball uniform.

I don’t want to go down a Chicago rabbit-hole, either—well, I just did—looking over their discography, and history, about which I know nothing. I rarely consult other music writers (I read lots of music writers, but I mean, specifically, when writing a review), but I was compelled to check Robert Christgau’s “Consumer Guide” which is a great website, with no bullshit popping up, with an index, and searchable, tons of concise and insightful music writing (plus, he had the honor of getting a taste of his own medicine from Lou Reed, on that “Take No Prisoners” live record). Let’s see… Chicago… Christgau is… not a fan. To say the least. But I guess I am, now. Maybe I’ll pick up some more of the early records (I have a copy the their first “greatest hits” LP). Then, of course, I started reading about the tragic death of Terry Kath, and tried to remember what I thought about it at the time—1978. We didn’t have the internet, of course, and so we had to wait for any news to be on the radio or TV or in the papers, and then to really find out anything, next month’s Rolling Stone. I guess by that point I thought of the band as an insipid AM radio hits band, but still, it was pretty sad and senseless and depressing. Then later the same year, my hero Keith Moon died, and that really hit me hard. While I was legitimately sad, I remembered thinking that the intense public mourning for Elvis (the previous year) was kind of ridiculous (though it’s easy to forget that he was only 42). But Terry Kath and Keith Moon were barely into their early thirties. I don’t really believe that “only the good die young” thing (maybe it’s more that they haven’t had the time yet to become wretched), but considering another prominent 1946 birth… well, forget that (I try to avoid presidential politics on this site, but it is notable when someone goes from being merely a huge, reeking, cultural turd to a literal giant magnet for hate, racism, intolerance, and fascism).

A couple of years ago, when David Bowie died, and then a few months later, Prince died, I did feel pretty emotional, sad and devastated—again wondering if that made sense, not knowing them personally. But now, because of social media, you are very much aware of this as a shared experience. It is not at all unusual for people to mourn the loss of artists, public figures, who enrich their lives. Thinking about it now, when Terry Kath died, I was still in high school, living with my parents, and my shared experience about this kind of thing was primarily with them. And in those years, from the time of my birth, to the point at which I first moved away from home (which coincided, by chance, with Keith Moon’s death) my experiencing and dealing with the death of family members, friends, and public figures was a pretty intimate experience with my parents, and I feel like I was closer with them, on a communication level, than probably the average kid. So I’m thinking about that now… started out to write about this Chicago record… talk about your rabbit-hole…

James McCandless “Faultline”

Again with the goofy fonts; I thought it said “Asscandles”—but closer examination clarifies: James McCandless, someone I’ve not heard of before now. This record is from 1985, which to me seems like yesterday, and I have to keep reminding myself it’s over 30 years ago. Also, magic-markered on the front and back cover are the letters, WNKU, which sounds like a radio station to me, and research reveals it’s on the Kentucky/Cincinnati border. Somehow this record escaped.

Further research turns up a James McCandless website. Apparently he died in 2013, nearing the age of 70. He lived most of his life in the Chicago area, playing all over the place, folk music, and this is his first record, on his own label, St. Christopher. There’s a lyric sheet, which is nice, because the lyrics are worth checking out, even though you probably can understand them as his voice is clear as a bell. This is the good kind of folk music; it’s plenty serious but doesn’t take itself too seriously. Songs are funny and they are grim. Some just voice and acoustic guitar, and some with a full band and some fine musicians.

I could go on and on but I’m trying to keep things short, and many of you will see the word “folk music” and go no further. You’re making a mistake. But go to your grave close-minded if you want to, there’s plenty of eternity to come around to things. Anyway, I personally cannot resit a verse like this: “Last night after work we all went to a restaurant / I ordered my usual BLT and fries / and while I was hunched over my friend Jerry put on his sunglasses / he said the glare off my skull was hurting his eyes.” It’s from a song called “Kareem and Me” about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and going bald.