Polka King Read online

  In the midst of one of our Northeastern tours, I got a call from a producer at a label called Dyno Records out of Pittsburgh. I was aware of Dyno—the great Marion Lush put out a whole bunch of sides with them, including Lush’s Luscious Polkas (one of the finest album titles in polka history)—and was tickled, to put it mildly. The conversation was quick and to the point: “Dyno wants to get into the Jimmy Sturr business. Interested?”

  “Um, let me check with my current label.”

  “Great. Call us back.” And that was it. He hung up the phone.

  Al Soyka had given me a chance to record in his studio and tour with his band, so I couldn’t just up and leave him. After days of contemplating, hand-wringing, and pacing, I made the call I’d been so dreading.

  “Al, it’s Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy, my boy. What’s up?”

  “Well, this is really hard for me to tell you, because you’ve been so good to me, both as a mentor and a producer, and the last thing I want is to leave you in the lurch, and this is one of the most difficult phone calls I’ve ever had to make, and I don’t know how to tell you this, but, well, but, um, but I got a call from a gentleman at Dyno R—”

  Before I could even finish saying the word “records,” Al burst in and said, “They want to record you? Great! Do it. I’m moving to Florida. And not your Florida, Jim. The real Florida. You know, with the sun. So go to Dyno! Have yourself a ball! You have my blessing.”

  As tough as it was to leave Al, moving to a different label was exciting. I’d get new ideas from new producers, and the label’s distribution was somewhat better than Glo’s, so I’d hopefully be reaching a wider audience. But it was also nerve-racking, as I wouldn’t have the savvy of an expert like Al at my disposal. But you have to grow and evolve, so I went for it.

  And I proceeded to make the worst album of my life. I’ve made 140 albums, so that’s saying something. The mix was terrible, the song choices were questionable, and the artwork was shoddy. I don’t even want to tell you what it was called because you might track it down, buy it, listen to it, and think less of me. I washed my hands of Dyno as soon as I possibly could.

  After that disaster, I found myself at a career crossroads. Al was on his way to Florida—the Florida with the sun—and Dyno was clearly useless. Dana Records wasn’t particularly active, and I was pretty certain that there weren’t going to be any major labels knocking down my door. I weighed my options and came to the conclusion that if somebody was going to produce, record, and distribute my albums, it should be a guy who loves polka, a guy who will promote the hell out of these songs, and a guy who won’t argue with me when I want to record a twenty-song medley. And that person was . . . me!

  Thus, Starr Records was born.

  Since I wasn’t rolling in the dough, Starr Records was a bare-bones operation. The office staff consisted of yours truly, Gussie Koisor, and, every once in a while, a secretary. In the beginning, our artist roster was small, young, and hungry; it consisted of yours truly, the excellent Kryger Brothers Orchestra from Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and the hugely popular Max Smulewicz & His Orchestra. (Years before, Max was the leader of the aforementioned Gay Musicians.)

  And then there were the Merry Cavaliers.

  I learned early on that being a music-label maven came with its own problems, one of which was the constant barrage of requests for record contracts. In one particularly memorable instance, I received a phone call from a Walt Dombrowski, who introduced himself as the “Polka King of Philadelphia.”

  “Ah, your highness,” I said, chuckling at his self-proclaimed royalty, “what can I do for you today?”

  “I want to meet with you,” the king commanded. “How about we get together this afternoon? At the train station. In Newark.”

  “Um, what?”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way up to visit my daughter who lives up in New Haven, Connecticut. Florida’s about halfway between here and there. I’ll get off the train, we’ll talk, and then I’ll get on the next one and be on my way.”

  I didn’t have much going on that afternoon, so I told him I’d be there. Besides, who was I to refuse an invitation from the king?

  When I arrived at the station, a short, squat, older man carrying what looked like one heck of a heavy suitcase wandered over, gave me a once over, and then said, “Sturr?”

  “King?”

  Smiling, he said, “You know what, Sturr? Just by looking at you, I can tell you’re gonna make it someday. You’re gonna make it big.”

  “Thanks, Mr.Dombrowski. That’s very kind of you to say.”

  “Just calling it like I see it. So listen, I’m retiring from the music scene, and I want you to have this,” he said, and handed me the suitcase.

  “What’s this?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a bomb, or a decapitated head. After all, I didn’t know if Walt was a benevolent king or an angry one.

  Walt said, “They’re my arrangements. And now they’re yours. I think you’ll do the right thing with ’em. There’re a few of them in there that haven’t even been recorded yet. I put those on top.” He checked his watch and then said, “The next train is in a few minutes. Good luck, Jimmy, but I don’t think you’ll need it.” Then he repeated, “I can tell you’re gonna make it someday. You’re gonna make it big.”

  When I arrived home, I did some research, which consisted of me ringing up one of my polka-loving pals from Pennsylvania, and learned that Walt was kind of a big deal at one time. He’d cut some albums for RCA, and once that well dried up he, like most quality purveyors of polka, moved over to Dana Records. All of a sudden, the king’s arrangements started to mean something to me; I wanted to get them on wax ASAP. That weekend I got my band together, and we drove up to West Point, New York. Why would I go to West Point, instead of one of the many established studios in Manhattan? Simple—because one of my oldest and dearest friends was the West Point house engineer, and he was going to give me a good deal. And at that time, Starr Records needed all the good deals it could possibly get.

  Unsurprisingly, West Point didn’t have the best facilities in the world; the academy was all about building soldiers, not making records. It had only two tracks, and the West Point brass wasn’t compelled to update it, because its only client was the school band. As my friend explained, the powers-that-be weren’t particularly concerned about the sonics for a band whose records would never sell outside of the campus. But I was getting a bargain, so I’d take what I could get. His name was Bill Turowski. After seven years in the army, he went away to become a priest and eventually became the parish priest in my hometown.

  After the session, Gus and I were listening to the master tapes; halfway through the first song, something dawned on me. “You know what?” I said to Gussie. “This doesn’t sound like us. Not one bit.”

  He said, “It’s Walt’s arrangements. They’re great, but they’re not you.”

  “You’re right. But you know what? I think the record’s pretty good.”

  “It’s not bad,” Gus said. “Not bad at all.”

  “We can’t let it sit there just because it sounds a little different. We have to release it.”

  Scratching his head, Gus suggested, “Why don’t you put it out under a different name? Something with ‘Bells,’ maybe. Everybody still likes that ‘Bells’ business. You could be the Ringing Bells. Or the Blue Bells, or maybe the New York Bells. Or even the Northern Bells . . .”

  “No,” I said. “No way. ‘Bells’ has been done to death. No ‘Bells’ on Starr Records.”

  “Got it. How about something with ‘Happy’? The Happy Campers. The Happy Orchestra. Happy Bells. The Bells of Happiness.”

  “Happy’s too simple. How about ‘Cheerful’?”

  “Or ‘Jolly’?”

  “Or ‘Jovial’?”

  “Or ‘Merry’?”

  “Hey, ‘Merry’ is good.”

  I’ll spare you the discussion that led to us coming up with “Cavaliers.”

  The debut fr
om the Merry Cavaliers Orchestra was an interesting record (I listened to it not too long ago, and it still sounds pretty good to me); however, from what I understand, the Polka King of Philadelphia passed away before he was able to hear it, which is really too bad. I think he would’ve enjoyed it.

  Another one of the gentlemen I welcomed into the Starr stable was my old favorite Walt Solek. As noted, Walt was a comedic performer, so he was called the “Clown Prince of Polka,” thanks in part to his crossover novelty composition “Who Stole the Kishka?” (Walt wasn’t just funny in the studio; he also liked to goof around in concert. One of his favorite gags was to take the stage in a striped jailbird costume when he played his big hit. I doubt anybody ever got arrested for stealing a kishka, but I could be wrong.) I’d put together some semicomedic arrangements of my own—the most memorable one was called “Plumbers Polka,” which included a line about not being able to hold a pipe anymore (you can take that as you will)—and figured a guest appearance from the Clown Prince would put those songs over the top. And since this comedic repertoire didn’t sound like my band, it was released under the banner of Walt Solek and the Merry Cavaliers.

  While we’re on the subject of stealing, I wasn’t above stealing from another record label’s roster, although this particular theft was instigated by the musician himself.

  One day out of the blue, I got a call from Dyno Records recording artist Marion Lush. At this point Marion was one of the most popular artists in the entire polka field, so when he said, “Would you be interested in signing me to Starr Records?” I jumped on it. We released a bunch of Marion’s records, including the awkwardly named For Adults Only Polka Party Album. Marion didn’t sell as many albums as we thought he would (the Kryger Brothers actually outsold him), which was surprising because Marion came to us with a built-in audience—but I never for a minute regretted having him in our stable. He was a great guy and great musician, and led a great band.

  (It’s worth noting that Marion was the only artist on our label who played a Chicago brand of polka. The primary quality that differentiates Chicago-style polka from polka on the East Coast is the tempo; those boys from the Midwest played everything considerably more slowly than their East Coast counterparts. Their instrumentation was also slightly different: They liked to use two trumpets, an accordion, a concertina—an accordion-like instrument that looks like a snake when extended to its full length—bass, and drums. The lack of a reed instrument or a keyboard makes their sound far more stripped down, and if I may be honest, while I appreciated what they were doing—and I still do—I enjoy Eastern-style polka better. Even though I recorded and promoted the heck out of Marion, the Chicago polka crowd didn’t think much of me. I’ll expand on that a little later in the book.)

  I also brought Frankie Gutowski into the fold. I used to see Frankie, a native New Jerseyan, perform back at those picnics when I’d skip out on my Little League games, so having him aboard was kind of a thrill. His band was razor-sharp, exciting, and energetic. Frankie wasn’t that well-known or popular outside of New Jersey, but if you run your own record label, you have the option to take on passion projects, to record somebody whom you want to record simply because you adore their music. For me, Frankie was that guy.

  Every so often I’d stumble into the perfect signing—a great artist with a great band and great following, and a great guy who became a great friend and great musical partner. Starr’s most notable perfect signee was none other than Gene Wisniewski.

  In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Gene Wisniewski was arguably the most popular performer in all of polka. Gene was a former pilot who fought in World War II. After he got out of the army, Gene formed his band, Gene Wisniewski and His Harmony Bells Orchestra. Within months the Harmony Bells became one of the finest suppliers of Polish-style polka in the country, in part because Gene was a road warrior who toured constantly. He brought polka to the people cheerfully, consistently, and energetically. Gene had one of the most loyal fan bases of his era, so it’s little wonder that Dana Records, at the height of its popularity, brought him into the studio a number of times. Each of those records was a winner.

  I couldn’t tell you how, why, or when Gene and I became such close friends. Even though he was considerably older than me (not old enough to be my father, but close enough), we just clicked. Naturally, we spent a lot of time chatting about the polka business, talking shop about the music, the musicians, the road, and the fans; but we also talked about nothing, and I’d rather talk about nothing with Gene than something with a lot of other people.

  Even though he never told me, I know for a fact that Gene felt the same way. He had a close friend named Alda Villiard, and Alda once told me, “You know what, Jimmy? Gene told me that he looks at you as the son he never had.” And that is a true honor.

  Starr Records never released anything by the Harmony Bells Orchestra, but we documented Gene on record as the vocalist for, you guessed it, Jimmy Sturr and His Orchestra. He sang on seven of our records, and I still cite those as my favorites albums from my pre-CD years.

  Right when Gene entered into my life, I came up with the brilliant (some might say crazy) idea of recording an album of medleys. And not just medleys composed of two or three songs, but long medleys, medleys with some weight to them, medleys that were six, seven, or even ten songs long. It’s not as crazy as it might sound: polka fans like to party, and if you have a long string of songs, they’ll have the opportunity to dance without a break.

  On my first medley record, I pulled together a whopping sixty-six tunes. To give you some perspective, The Beatles, in the band’s eight-year career, recorded a total of 304 tunes. I laid down sixty-six in one afternoon. (If I kept up that pace over an eight-year period—we’re talking recording three albums every twelve months—you’re looking at a total of 1,584 songs, give or take a few.) The album was called Pure Polka and it proved why polka experts considered Gene as one of the great singers of his era. Thanks to Gene’s tour de force performance, Pure Polka helped put me on the map as far as polka was concerned. It got to the point where I had to keep a box of Pure Polka in the trunk of my car because it seemed like everywhere I went, somebody would ask, “Hey, ya got a copy of that record with all the songs on it that I can buy from ya?”

  I think part of the reason it appealed to everybody was that it was the record with all the songs. Hard-core polka fans could enjoy it because it had all their favorites, and newcomers could appreciate it because it was a terrific introduction to the genre. Pure Polka was such a hot seller for us that I did a second medleys album, Make Mine Polkas! But I upped the ante this time and laid down seventy-seven songs. Nobody who ever bought any of these records complained about not getting their money’s worth.

  I’m not one to play favorites. If you were to ask me, “Who’s your favorite polka band?” my answer would change every six months, depending on who’d just put out a great record or delivered a great live performance. But the fact of the matter is, I like everybody. To me, if you’re playing the music competently, you’re worth listening to.

  But that Gene Wisniewski, well, he was something special.

  Postscript #1: No discussion of record labels can be complete without telling the tale of Nino Bruno and Vinnie Dean.

  Vinnie was a jazz saxophonist who recorded and/or toured with the likes of Stan Kenton, Benny Goodman, and Charlie Barnett. Nino, a solid but unspectacular drummer, was one of his closest friends. When Vinnie got off the road with those jazz greats, he convinced Nino to help him launch and run a recording studio in New Rochelle, New York. Nino said yes, and soon after they set up shop, they took off.

  Everybody liked working at their place . . . except me. I recorded one album up there and didn’t care for it one bit. I couldn’t tell you exactly what the problem was—the studio just didn’t sound right. (The album was better than that mess I cut for Dyno Records, but anything was better than that.) I didn’t have any hard feelings. How could I? You don’t know if a studio will wor
k for you unless you give it a shot.

  Several years later, my band was playing at a fair in a town called Cobleskill in upstate New York, and who was there in the front row, clapping and dancing like a madman? None other than Nino Bruno himself. After the show, Nino and I filled each other in on our respective recent pasts. He told me that he’d gotten into the horse business (he owned a bunch of quarter horses, and was getting ready to open his own racetrack) and then mentioned, “Vinnie and I are starting to promote records on television. We just did one by this group called the Harmonicats, and it sold fifty-five thousand copies.”

  That got my wheels spinning. “You know what, Nino? You should think about doing some polka albums. I have something that’ll work for you perfectly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I did two albums of medleys. One had sixty-six songs, and the other had seventy-seven. I think you can do something with that.”

  “Yeah? I think so too. Wait here.” And then he ran off. Ten minutes later, he returned and told me, “Vinnie doesn’t want to do it . . .”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s too bad.”

  “. . . but I do.”

  A couple months later, Nino combined those two albums into one set called Let’s Have a Polka Party. When it came out, Vinnie Dean was not pleased . . . that is until the day he called the agency he’d hired to advertise and distribute their records to get the sales figures on the Harmonicats record. After his contact relayed said numbers—numbers that were quite good, mind you—Vinnie asked, “And how’s that polka record doing?”

  The agency guy said, “It’s a bomb.”

  “I knew it. I tried to talk Nino out of doing that. I was sure it would tank. I don’t even want to tell you how much money we wasted on that thing.”