Finally, I came across a record in my very miscellaneous 45 box that I never heard before and it’s really good. Both sides sound like soul classics—they sound enough like other songs that they’re on the tip of your tongue—but I don’t recall ever hearing them. I must have played the record when I found it (I play everything once)—then filed it with the rest, waiting for its magic number to come up. It’s a simple white label with black, basic letters, Brownie Records—and the artist, Barbara Christian. I’d never heard of either, so the way my brain works, I’m thinking religious music, and that dessert that’s about half as good as fudge. But no, the A-side is a hot soul number with a repetitive organ riff, horns, wild drums, and catchy, echoey backup vocals—an overall kind of over-blown, hard, funky sound. You can dance to it. Her singing is strong and emotional. I like “I Worry” even more—a slower one, even more emotional—the man in question here isn’t being dismissed, this time—more worth being sad over. You can dance to this one too, but it would be a slow dance. Again, organ, horns, and drums recorded loud, so when they break out, they distort—I really like the sound. I imagine this is the same recording session. Both songs are credited to “G. Brown”—and it’s “A Gary Brown Production”—so I’m guessing he wrote them. I can’t find a lot of info, but there’s some on Discogs, and in comments on a YouTube of the record someone was kind enough to post. If the info is correct—Brownie was Gary Brown’s label, out of Milwaukee, and Barbara Christian was born in Newark and passed away in Milwaukee in 2018. The record is from 1967. I know I always say (when writing about a 45) that I don’t have any idea where it came from (I’m a broken record) but in most cases that’s true. You come across them a lot in thrift stores, and they’re almost always either super big hits, a billion pressed, and/or lame novelty records. But once in a while you find something good, like this, so it’s worth looking!
Posts Tagged ‘Milwaukee
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.
John Ernst Café
This is a promotional record from 1958 (according to the internet) for John Ernst Café—it says: “Milwaukee’s Oldest Restaurant… John Ernst Café – Offers Old World Charm” – and the music consists of, on the first side (introduced by John Ernst), Irv and Chet on violin and organ bringing you a “medley of favorite European and American numbers” requested nightly at the café. Then on side two, Doris and Ernie Wicki (who don’t seem to have a Wikipedia page) on accordion, vocals, and bass violin – “our Swiss entertainers” with “Alpine musical treats.” The sound recording is nice (by Dave Kennedy) and you can imagine that you’re in the room there with the performers and people dining. There’s a couple of small photos of the entertainers on the back cover, sharing the spotlight with photos of what might be Weiner Schnitzel, Kassler Rippen, Sauerbraten, Cornish Game Hen, and Lobster. It’s signed to “Joe and Kate” (formerly custodians of this LP) “regards + best wishes, violinistically yours, Irv Brykczynski (I think—he ran out of space!) and Chester Vincent. On the cover, John Ernst welcomes you to the door (also, signed by him) and says “Welkommen.” There’s a nice picture of the café, on Ogden Street, at Jackson, which you will recognize as still being there, but now taken over as a Chipotle, a Panera Bread, and something else. Sad, but at least they didn’t tear it all down to build another of those lifeless, four floor apartment buildings. I was living in Milwaukee while John Ernst Café was still operating and I failed to dine there—one of my many, many regrets. At the point that they closed, my friends and I checked the dumpster each day as they cleaned the place out. It had to be the most magical dumpster of all time. For years, I displayed things like the decorative crows I found there. I have an old menu, but I’ll be damned if I can find it, now. I do have a typed out “Luncheon” menu from September 16, 1965, hanging on my wall. My kind of lunch—liver and onions for $1.75—as is “Koenigsburger Klops with Caper Sauce.” But if you want to splurge, South African Lobster Tail is $5—and “Mocha Torte” is 40 cents. Coffee is 15 cents, and you can get a Stein of imported beer for 75 cents!
This album is a grand mystery, and I’m not willing to spend as much time, at this point, going as deep into the internet as it would require to find out more. Maybe on a rainy day I’ll look further. It came up, to review, using my random system, on Good Friday—nice, so I’m doing my best. The cover is a big fake-out—it looks like classic thrift-store religious art—a handsome, blue-eyed, bearded man—no doubt Jesus—sitting on a rock, overlooking a seashore. And the album title in script letters. On back is a severe looking, we’ll presume, Lee Porter, sitting in a big, wicker chair. I was trying to think of the name of these chairs, and “peacock chair” came to mind, so I was looking that up, and at that moment—I was watching Klute (1971) on TV—and a woman in the movie (not Jane Fonda) was sitting in the exact same chair! I don’t make this stuff up.
Back to the music—the voice on the record matches her look—she sounds like a whiskey-voiced lounge singer—I mean that in the best way. I really like her singing. Yesterday I was not a Lee Porter fan. Today I am. Though if she knocks on my door right now, an elderly resident of this haunted hotel I make my home, I might need a drink. Twelve pop songs with a piano, drums, bass, etc. combo. I’m not going to list the tracks—you’ll know most, or all, of them. There’s no date on the record—I’m guessing the second half the Sixties, but I might be off. No other info, except that it was recorded at Dave Kennedy Recording Studios, Universal Building, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and the musicians are: Dave Kennedy, Bob Couey, Bill Otten, Gary Miller, and Merv Pyles. No record company. No other info. Maybe someone will read this and fill me in.
The first song, “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” is presented as a live recording, with an MC introducing it, but I suspect it’s another fake-out, because the sound quality sounds exactly the same as the rest of the record, and very little other audience noise is in evidence—though it’s possible the first side is live and the second is studio—as it’s a bit more subdued. At any rate, it’s quite bawdy, so people who bought this expecting Christian music might have put it right on the devil-rock bonfire. The last song on the record is a perfect, slightly tipsy, lounge-band version of “Misty,” which makes me want to go out and find Lee Porter and this band, like tonight—at the classic cocktail lounge, somewhere like Bryant’s or At Random, and just sit there with a Lucky Strike and a Manhattan and maybe hope for a word with Lee during her break—maybe I can ask her to do an interview for this very website. “What the hell is a website?”she asks, wondering if I’m some kind of goddamn spider-man. I hope when I get back in the time machine I won’t take the blood-alcohol level with me, because it was rough giving that stuff up. Or maybe I’ll just stay back there, whenever that was.
The Bon Aires “La Versatile”
Rams Head Inn, Milwaukee
I’m not exactly sure what the name of this record is. It’s by The Bon Aires (or Bon-Aires) on a label called “Pro-Gress Records.” Besides the band name, the cover also says, “La Versatile”—what’s that all about? And also, “Rams Head Inn, Milwaukee”—apparently where the band had their tenure. The most advanced date I see anywhere in print on the cover is 1968, and the song, Evil Ways! (recorded by Santana) came out in 1969, so I’m just going to go with 1969 as a date for this record.
If you saw the cover of this record you’d have bought it, too—it looks like it’s pasted up by someone’s insane aunt, including “framed” photos of the band members, and a cartoon graphic of a naked woman with ram’s horns grappling with a cocktail glass as big as she is (fortunately only a couple of inches tall, or it might have never cleared the myopic decency mafia). On back is a little feature about The Rams Head Inn where The Bon Aires were the house band, and it sounds like a great place—I’d be there right now if it had survived. It even gives the address: 2023 S. Kinnickinnic, Milwaukee—is it still there? A quick look at the internet map—oh. That’s the corner of Kinnickinnic and Becher where now there’s that hideous BP station, “Go” Mart, and Laser Touchless Carwash. That’s just tragic. I can’t find anything on the internet about this record, so I’m not going to try that hard—I’ll just go by what’s here. There’s an extensive bio for each band member—this was a regular supergroup. Their names are: Dennis Jurkowski, Fred Haldemann, Gary Chaney, and Frederick Stadler. Also on the back of the cover is their band press release. You could probably spend a day or a lifetime, if you wanted, tracking down everyone and everything here, and why not? But I’m just going to move on to the music.
This is one of those records that (short of doing some heavy-duty research, which I’m not going to do because I’m too lazy) the best way to approach it is on a track by track basis, and just give my impressions, or what each song made me think of or feel. “A Man and a Woman” is my favorite track on the record, with some really bizarre organ—I could listen to a whole side of this—it sounds like the soundtrack for one of my sci-fi noir nightmares. A really atmospheric version of “Summertime,” with sax coming down a block-long tunnel and a nice vocal. This would be the last song of side one of a collection of the most extreme versions of this standard. “Rain Rain Polka” takes the jauntiness to “10,” including some tortured “yee-ha’s.” Kind of back to the movie the first track evokes, is a corny yet evocative version of “Laura’s Theme (from Dr. Zhivago).” I guess “La Bamba” is always going to sound like “La Bamba,” whether it be Latin, Polka, or Space Alien. The insane classic “Five-Foot-Two” reminds me that Iggy Pop did “Five Foot One” AND a version of “Summertime” on the same record, and why am I not listening to that right now? “Yellow Bird” whisks us off to, naturally, Hawaii, even though it’s snowing outside. “Vienna, My City of Dreams” sounds like you think it might, with a vocal by Edwin Wasilewski, the man, apparently, behind The Rams Head Inn! “Quando Quando” is another of those familiar songs from decades of corniness exposure—this version on speed (prob. coffee?)—organist, drummer, and flautist are OFF THE HOOK. “Whipout” is a cross between the surfer standard, “Wipeout,” and the DEVO classic “Whip It”—which didn’t come out until TEN YEARS AFTER—Time Machine! “Stranger on the Shore” is another blast of nostalgia that takes me back to no doubt a sleazier time, esp. with that evocative licorice stick wailing. And finally, “Evil Ways!” had to be the song of the day when this was recorded, and they actually do a pretty hip version of it—I mean, very very cool, laid back and still edgy, with both sax and guitar solo. These guys could probably have pulled off “Stayin’ Alive,” “Sheena is a Punk Rocker,” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” had they still been playing—but then, maybe they were, maybe they did, and maybe they are!
Audiophile “Echoes of the Storm”
This 33 1/3 RPM long playing 12 inch record is a collection of high fidelity recordings of various oddities, pressed into beautiful, translucent, ruby-red vinyl grooves, as heavy as the records the kids are making these days, though this came out in 1956. I’m considering “Audiophile” to be both the artist and the label (from Saukville, Wisconsin!), and “Echoes of the Storm” the title, though that recording comprises Side A of this disc—Side B is titled: “Crazy Quilt” and consists of several tracks: Rotary Saw, Hammer Driving Nails, Water Dripping into Bucket,” “Drums,” and “Music Box.” The last two tracks are undeniably “music”—though I’ll wager they didn’t crack the Billboard charts—and I find the Rotary Saw track not unlike being subjected to the sound of a rotary saw. In fact, if ever I put this side on again, on purpose, it would be justifiable for friends to express concern. Side A, however, is another matter. I love thunderstorms, and this sounds exactly like a thunderstorm, and it’s framed by birds and frogs, and a train rolls through somewhere around the halfway point! There are some pretty good liner notes about serious techie audiophiliac issues, but also composed with a lot of dry humor. It also reveals that the storm was recorded in Milwaukee in June, 1952—and I find it kind of thrilling to know that. The cover looks pretty homemade and it is beautiful. It includes an 8 x 8 inch, what looks like a woodcut, rendering of a storm, with racing clouds, a bent tree, and some really frightening, hairy lightning—all in silver and blue on black. I found myself staring at it while listening to the storm track, and I have to say, I’ll take this over drugs any day. I got a real evening’s entertainment out of the dollar or so this record cost me.
It’s not easy to find anything about Ramal LaMarr on the internet, and though, of course, I could dig deeper, I’m not sure if I want to, because I’m looking while listening to this record and starting to get the heebie-jeebies, because it sounds a lot like the music one would listen to while performing human sacrifices. I don’t know why I think that, really—I must have seen too many human sacrifice movies, though I can’t recall ever having seeing any. That level of creepiness is not my thing, really, though it’s kind of fun thinking about in relation to this record. The cover looks creepily homemade, with cut-out images of a belly dancer and a guy (Ramal?) who is wearing what looks like some kind of Satanic garb. The images seem to have been cut out with a very sharp knife (sharp enough to cut out a human heart?) and placed on a background that looks like a wall mural for a Middle-Eastern restaurant. There’s a feeling of finality to it, like the name of the album sounds like it could be his first, second, and final record all in one. Also, it’s very long, like nearly an hour in length, which… I guess if you’re in the middle of a human sacrifice you don’t want to have to stop and turn over the record.
Though maybe I’m overthinking things—the internet says he put out a couple of records after this one, and they all do have “dance” in the title; maybe this is essentially belly dance music. Which is what it sounds like, though on the sinister end of that spectrum. It’s from 1983, and the label is “Lotus”—out of Milwaukee. It’s instrumental, consisting mostly of synthesizer and percussion. Credits indicate that Ramal LaMarr plays everything except “Zills”—which are credited to “Chandrani”—who I’m guessing might be the belly dancer on the cover. Besides synth and bass, there are Arabian Drums, Kanoon, and Mbira listed. A few songs end with a really kind of creepy and ominous gong. As I listen to the whole record again while typing this, it’s actually starting to grow on me; it’s somewhat soothing on one hand, and kind of trance-inducing on another, and kind of anxiety producing on another. I know that’s three hands—thus the anxiety, I guess. But really, I could see this as really good music for writing, making love, or preparing an elaborate Thanksgiving dinner while the in-laws sit nervously in the next room sipping Brandy Alexanders, wondering just who their daughter got herself mixed up with this time.
This is apparently a private pressing record from around 1975 of this organ wizard from Milwaukee, Archie Ulm, playing some supper club standards on the Yamaha EX-42, accompanied by percussionist Paul Hergert and guitarist Ar Kriegel. I don’t know anything about the Yamaha EX-42—“an electronic marvel” without looking it up, and I’m not going to (it’s an early 70s big-ass electric organ) which he plays, as well as an ARP Odyssey and a Carnaval electric piano. (The cover photo, of Archie sitting behind a bank of keyboards, is pretty great.) This whole record is a pleasure to listen to, just because he’s taking the organ a little (and sometimes a lot) beyond what you’ve heard anyone do (I think… well, I haven’t heard everyone… but then everyone hasn’t heard this). It’s kind of unfortunate that a lot of songs here are popular numbers (“The Hustle,” “Pink Panther”) that I kind of wish I’d never have to hear again, under any circumstances. (Though I don’t mind so much the “Rockford Files” and “NBC Mystery Movie” Themes.) When he goes off from the familiar parts of the songs, though, it’s pretty amazing and makes you think it’d be great if we could just hear his own compositions, or better quality, less cheesy standards. (“The Cat” is a standout; and he doesn’t hold back.) But you’ve got to make the people happy, I guess, and for some reason the people get nervous when they’re not hearing something they recognize. The cool thing is, because he is apparently satisfying the popular familiarity button, he sneaks in quite a lot of playing that should be making people nervous—because it’s completely insane.
DJ Farraginous 
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