The star-crossed story of Planet Records: part 1

Quite often I find myself looking at older men and women on the train or tram, and wondering what they got up to when they were young. Were they living in Melbourne during the 1960s, and if so, did they ever go to Swinger at the Coburg Town Hall, for example, or walk down Collins Street when it looked like this, or attend one of the historic Who and Small Faces concerts at Festival Hall in 1968?

The bands and most of the venues may be long-gone and the cityscape is practically unrecognisable, but the fact is, history lives on all around us – in the form of the people who were there. Take these two cheeky old fellas, for instance…

These men – 88-year-old Bob King Crawford (left) and 85-year-old Marcus Herman (right) – changed the face of the Melbourne (and Australian) music industry. With talent, imagination and bucketloads of youthful confidence, they established the country’s first record label dedicated solely to Australian talent (not to mention the first label to release a full-length rock’n’roll album comprised entirely of Aussie performers) -- Planet Records. Surely, someone will script a TV mini-series about their exploits one day (in fact, I believe Bob has already written a play about it), but in the meantime, this is the first in a series of blog posts about this ground-breaking label. 

Planet Records existed for a decade, from 1951 to 1961. That’s a mighty long time ago, and as a result, some of the dates and details of this story may be a bit vague. But hey, who said music was an exact science? 

PLANET RECORDS: THE PREQUEL

All hail the King: the early years of Bob King Crawford

Readers of this blog may recognise Bob King Crawford’s name from his appearance in last year’s series, The Wigged-Out World of The Mystrys. But his music career dates much further back than that. By the time he first registered Planet Records Ltd as a business name in 1951, Bob was already a fixture on the local scene as a jazz crooner, songwriter and record salesman at Franklin’s Record Bar in Bourke Street. 

Not only had his compositions been performed on ABC Radio when he was still a teenager (“My first song was broadcast when I was about 17 – it was called ‘Even When It’s Raining’”, he recalls) but he was vocalist for the popular Alan Rhodes band, gigging at hip nightspots such as Coconut Grove in South Yarra, Leonard’s Cabaret in St Kilda, and the Sunday Jump Club at the Oran (a venue that claimed to be ‘for Modernists only’...you get the picture, Daddy-o), also in St Kilda.

Membership card for the very modern Jump Club

Not exactly the shy and retiring type, Bob put the ‘front’ in front man, enlisting his tailor to make him an eye-catching zoot suit to wear onstage with the band. Back in 1950s Melbourne, this caused more than a few double-takes. For one thing, it was a pretty extreme look compared to the conservatively cut suits of the day, but more significantly, zoot suits were associated with African- and Mexican-American jitterbug and swing subcultures. For a white Aussie bloke to wear one was quite a subversive fashion statement.

A zoot-suited Bob lets rip with 'Black and Blue'

Clad in his flashy stage attire, Bob used to put on quite a show. His Planet Records partner Marcus Herman remembers his performance style vividly: “He was very animated! If he was singing ‘Black and Blue’ he’d go ---” [Here, Marcus imitates Bob’s flamboyant stage moves, waving his arms around wildly.] Marcus's memories are supported by the following description of Bob in a publication from the time, The Listener In : "When on stage he continually weaves and moves in time with the rhythm."

Unsurprisingly, Bob was never troubled by nerves before a gig. “I have never been nervous. I probably would’ve been a much better performer if I had’ve been! To think there were people who used to vomit before they went onstage…”

The first incarnation of Planet Records was formed to capitalise on the Alan Rhodes band’s popularity; in June 1951 they released two shellac 78rpm ten-inches: ‘Blue Moon’ (a cover of the old Rogers and Hart tune)/‘Candy Store Blues’. and ‘Black and Blue’ (the Fats Waller song)/’Bumble Boogie’. Note the eye-catching label design and intergalactic slogan ‘Up Among the Stars’ – even then, the trademark King Crawford flair was evident. Unfortunately, these records are now rarer than rocking horse poop, and I haven’t had the pleasure of listening to them.

About ‘Blue Moon’, Bob says, “I’ve never liked the record”, before adding, “It outsold the Mel Torme version in Melbourne.” In other words, it was a success: Torme’s velvet-voiced recording of the song was a big deal back then. 

In Bob’s opinion, the other record – which also sold very well -- was more important. “Out of the sequence of stuff, ‘Black and Blue’ was my big number. The first Aboriginal protest song.” (NB: A firm believer in Indigenous rights, Bob has spent many years campaigning for an Australian flag that recognises our country’s first peoples. Meanwhile, Marcus would go on to produce the first album by a female Aboriginal artist, Georgia Lee, for his post-Planet label, Crest Record Co.) 

An early report of Planet's launch, from local publication, The Listener In

Fast forward to 1954 and Bob was moving and shaking more than ever. From organising, promoting and compering Make Way for the Bands, a series of huge swing, be-bop and jazz concerts; to opening his own record store, repping for different record labels, composing songs for other artists and managing PR for touring performers from overseas (phew!), he was certainly making his mark on the Melbourne music scene.

But somewhere along the way, Planet Records had fallen off the radar. That is, until Bob noticed how popular country music was becoming – and it occurred to him that local audiences might enjoy hearing country music performed by Australian bands. It was time to get Planet back in orbit…


Wired for sound: the precocious technical wizardry of Marcus Herman
While Bob King Crawford was busy building his career as an entertainment industry all-rounder, teenage Bing Crosby fan Marcus Herman was cutting his teeth as a sound engineer in his own studio, Marco Recording Studio, which he’d set up at his parents’ place in South Yarra. It was the logical outcome for a technical whizz-kid who’d started tinkering with electronics at an age most children are still playing with Lego (although in this digital day and age, that may have changed). 

“I first got interested in technical things about the age of seven, when I tried to repair my grandfather and grandmother’s radio which was broken down, without anyone knowing,” he remembers. “I was trying to repair it, and got thrown across the room from the electrical shock. But I came back to it and fixed it. I don’t know what I did – it was valves with little caps on the top – but I looked around for things that didn’t seem right and managed to fix it.” An auspicious debut! 

A very young Marcus Herman at work

After graduating from high school, Marcus worked for his father’s upmarket furriers’ business in the Block Arcade for a couple of years, while “doing private recordings for people" in his spare time. "I built the first homemade tape recorder in Australia – by bringing in a deck from England…that would have been the late 40s I think.” He also built his own record player, so he could listen to his prized Bing Crosby 78s.  

Like Bob, Marcus was entirely self-taught. “I was a frustrated singer who never did anything about it except sing for fun at home and that’s what led me to make recordings. Also to make records of things that were rare and not available, that I’d record, mainly from the radio, and eventually cut onto disc. This was before tape.”

He also recorded people direct to disc – local musos who wanted their own personal record, for example – and started gaining a reputation for his skill. “It was because musicians started to recommend me that I left my dad’s work.” When his parents moved house, Marcus, who was about 18 at this point, went with them...as did his studio equipment.

“I originally started Marco Recording Studio (a play on words on my name) from home in South Yarra. Then we moved to Glen Iris, which is where Bob met me. The studio was in a back room that was meant to be a sun room. I asked Mum and Dad if I could knock out a wall between that and the veranda, which also had a wall, and they said no, you’d better not. They shouldn’t have said ‘better not’ because that sounded like a bit of a maybe to me, and when they were both away for the day, I knocked the wall down! Lined it with canite and everything!” 

Like the saying goes, it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission!

Written in the stars? Aunt Ethel and Planetary destiny
Before he started thinking about recruiting a sound engineer, Bob realised that Planet’s resurrection would take funds he didn’t have. So he asked his dear Aunt Ethel for a loan. Ethel, who either had a soft spot for her nephew or a nose for a good investment, gave him the princely sum of 90 pounds. According to Marcus’s estimation, that was the equivalent of about eight weeks’ wages. 

The Block Arcade (where Aunt Ethel worked)
Photo: Mark Strizic

It’s here that things get a bit fatey. Well before he’d met or heard of Bob, Marcus already knew Ethel. “I knew her because she was a milliner and she worked in the Block Arcade where my father’s business was. Dad thought the world of her, and we’d often chat to her.” 

When I exclaim what a small world it is, he disagrees. “I don’t really think it is a small world. I’m into metaphysics and things; I believe we’ve all planned it at some level. Not to the exact detail…”

“I haven’t heard this version!” Bob remarks, looking somewhat bemused.

Marcus continues: “I reckon that between lifetimes, we say, The type of situation I want next time is such-and-such, and I believe we meet people that are in our travelling show, under different guises. I might have been a girl last time…”

And Bob might’ve been his mum in a past life, I suggest. “He could have been! Easy!”

“I’m remembering now!” jokes Bob. (Rest assured, there are more metaphysical adventures to come in this story.). 

As for whether Ethel actually liked any of the records Planet put out, Bob has no idea. Marcus, however, is willing to hazard a guess: “They were probably too modern for her I’d say. She was an old-fashioned type of lady.”

A meeting of the minds
But it wasn’t Aunt Ethel who introduced Bob and Marcus. A mutual friend called Gordon Wall was responsible for bringing the two together. Marcus knew Gordon through the Bing Crosby Fan Club, and Bob knew him through Alan Rhodes, who worked with him at a printing firm. 

Aware that Bob was on the look-out for a suitably qualified sound technician for the new-look Planet Records, Gordon mentioned Marcus as a possibility. However, he had one major reservation about introducing them…

Recalls Marcus: “He said I wouldn’t understand Bob’s quirky sense of humour! And he was right – I don’t understand it!” The two men chuckle like a pair of naughty boys.

Eventually Gordon bit the bullet and drove Bob to Glen Iris to meet Marcus one night. “I got out of the car and Gordon said again he thought it'd be a waste of time,” says Bob. “But we went in for a chat, and after the first three minutes Marcus and I started cracking jokes. Which Gordon wasn’t appreciating—eventually he just walked out and sat in the car. And left us to it!”

And so began a new chapter in Australian music history...

Next...
So you want to start a record label? An interPLANETary guide to success

The star-crossed story of Planet Records: part 3!

Planet Records finale: PR stunts, Red Indian spirits...and Eartha Kitt

Song of the month: "By My Side"/ The Elois (April 1967)

Sitting somewhere alongside ‘I Want, Need, Love You’ by The Black Diamonds and The Missing Links’ ‘You’re Driving Me Insane’* on the wigged-out wild-o-meter of Aussie garage punk, ‘By My Side’ by The Elois is the subject of today’s Melbourne song of the month segment. Over and out in under two-and-a-quarter minutes, this radioactive scorcher of a track leaves a trail of aural destruction in its wake that even repeated listens can’t diminish. The fact that it’s the work of a bunch of clean-cut country teenagers simply defies all logic. 

Blasting off with a stinging, sustained guitar note that’s soon joined by bass and drums in one of the most raucous intros ever to be committed to tape, the song gets even more intense when the snarling vocals of Alan Rowe kick in. Belting out the repetitive lyrics like some kind of desperate mantra, he sounds like a man possessed: howling, growling, a slave to his hormones as he informs the object of his affections in no uncertain terms how badly he wants her. There’s a similar sense of, ahem, urgency about the backing vocals.


(This is not the original music video, but it's super-cool nonetheless!)

About 30 seconds in, a series of drum rolls signal a change of pace, and the band flips from full-throttle into thumping, grinding mode (punctuated by some cool sliding bass), gradually building up into a cacophony of voices that’s almost unbearable – then bam! That fuzzed-out guitar is back, even more blistering than before. And just when you think things can’t get any more insane…they do. 

The song ends with an extended rave-up that makes The Yardbirds seem refined, all unhinged drums, guitar as deadly feedback weapon, relentless bass and an almost chanted refrain, ‘I can’t get enough from you, girl’. (Ah, so the truth is out: she’s not putting out as much as he’d like.) And suddenly it’s all over. 
Holy wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, Batman!  

No country bumpkins

So who the hell were The Elois, to release this one dynamite 45 (‘By My Side’ is on the B-side; a hum-dingin’ take of ‘I’m a Man’ is the A-side) and then slip into obscurity?

Formed in 1964 by school friends Michael Dzuriek (bass) Dennis Fiorini (lead guitar, vocals), Doug Blair (rhythm guitar, vocals) and drummer Ian Chettle (who was replaced a few months later by Bill Van Berkel), The Elois were from the small historic gold-rush town of Maryborough. Wondering how to say the name? I always thought it was pronounced ‘Eloyze’ but while researching this post, I discovered that it’s ‘Eel-eye’ (with a silent ‘s’, no less). 

The Elois: no idea which members these are!
Photo taken from The Livin' End, issue 3 (which wasn't captioned)

As most readers would know, Elois were the dainty little peace-loving peeps preyed upon by the creepy subterranean Morlochs in HG Wells’s sci-fi classic, The Time Machine. Intriguingly, the rock’n’roll Elois were called The Morlochs for a short while – which, to me, seems a more fitting name, given the savagery of ‘By My Side’. But then, maybe they were going for some kind of cognitive dissonance effect?

Like so many bands of the era, The Elois started out playing mainly instrumentals such as The Thunderbirds’ version of ‘Wild Weekend’, before adding some early Beatles-style numbers to the mix. In their matching grey suits and pink shirts, they built up a following (their fan club numbered in the thousands, apparently) by playing at big dances in the region, prompting the decision to recruit a dedicated singer.  

Downtown Maryborough, Photo: copyright Peter Maltezos (2013)

Enter Alan Rowe, another buddy from school. “He had a good voice, a bit like Eric Burdon,” Fiorini remarked decades later in that bible of 60s Antipodean garage and beat music Wild About You! by Ian D. Marks and Iain McIntyre. (Indeed, the interview with Fiorini in that book covers The Elois’ career in more detail than I could hope to here, and is well worth reading.)

Relieved of his vocal duties, Fiorini was free to concentrate on lead guitar, and gradually, the group developed a tougher sound, influenced by wilder proponents of the British invasion such as The Who, The Yardbirds and The Stones, which earned them the title of the ‘feedback kings of north-east Victoria’.

List of Victorian Battle of the Sounds heats, 1965,
taken from this informative downloadable booklet

Word gets around

Around this time The Elois caught the attention of one Graham Lever, a flashy, smooth-talking 3AK radio DJ who’d moved to the area. He became their manager, not only encouraging their penchant for distortion and raw r’n’b sounds, but trying to persuade them to relocate to the Big Smoke. 

Not yet ready for the Melbourne move, they entered a Maryborough heat of Hoadley’s famous Battle of the Sounds (coming second to Bendigo combo, The Emeralds), before trying again in the Ballarat round – and winning. This qualified them to compete in Melbourne against other heat-winners, but as far as I can tell, they didn’t get anywhere. 

Still, they must have enjoyed the change of scene, because it was after this that they decided to move to Melbourne with Lever. Unfortunately, Dzuriek couldn’t join them, having been conscripted for the Vietnam War (he was replaced by Greg Heenan), although they’d managed to lay down some demos with him before parting ways. In an article about the band published in Dean Mittelhauser's legendary fanzine The Livin’ End back in 1984, mention is made of some eight hours’ worth of recording, spanning ‘original material and covers, all absolutely dripping with their fuzz-laden style.’ Sadly, the master tapes have long since vanished. 

It seems that Blair had dropped out at some point before the Melbourne move too, being unwilling to buy his own amp, but I don’t think he was replaced. To be honest, information about The Elois is scarce (and photos even more so), making it hard to ascertain the chronology of their career and line-up changes. 

Article about The Elois in The Livin' End, issue 3

Melbourne-bound

So anyway, off they went to Batmania, where they ended up at the newly opened Armstrong Studios in South Melbourne. Under the expert guidance of sound engineer Roger Savage (who else?) they recorded their one-and-only single, 'I’m A Man/By My Side'. With 80 minutes at their disposal (at the princely rate of a dollar per minute), they knocked the two tracks out with just a couple of takes each. 

Bill Armstrong outside his Albert Rd studio soon after opening.

The results, as we know, were magic: rough, ready, undiluted, and positively crackling with energy. No wonder local label W & G were quick to sign The Elois to their subsidiary In Records, best known for being The Loved Ones’ label. In fact, the one time The Elois appeared on popular teen TV show, Kommotion (performing/miming ‘I’m a Man’), their illustrious label mates also featured.

While the single wasn’t a hit, it did make the lower echelons of the Melbourne charts, helped along no doubt by the band’s growing reputation as a killer live act. Playing venues such as Pinocchio’s, 5-4-3-2-1 and the Thumpin’ Tum, they blew audiences’ minds (and ear drums) with their fast, loud and feedback-heavy shows. So much so that they ended up blacklisted by the Tum! 

‘I remember I used to have my amp full-chat and my distortion pedal full-packet and just go right off,’ Fiorini recounts in Wild About You. ‘We must’ve blown the whole place apart! I suppose it was loud in those days. I upset somebody, but it went over pretty well’. 

Exterior of the Thumpin' Tum, photo courtesy Miles Ago.

Although they were signed for a three-year contract, The Elois only lasted a year in Melbourne. ‘We’d just about had enough by then,’ Fiorini continues. ‘We were battling. And the biggest problem was, our sound was too radical. You had Johnny Young [singing] “Step back a little, you’re falling in love” – tutty-tutty-tut stuff – and then we’d come along and just blow things away.’ 

They may have been square-lookin' short-hairs from rural Victoria, but it sure sounds like they showed the city slickers a thing or two about rock’n’roll.

Another pic taken from The Livin' End article (without which, this post would've been a bit screwed!):
L-R Greg Heenan, Alan Rowe (crouching), Bill Van Berkel, Dennis Fiorini

* Footnote: funnily enough, when I wrote that first line, I had forgotten that ‘By My Side’ follows ‘You’re Driving Me Insane’ and ‘I Want, Need, Love You’ on Side A of seminal Aussie 60s punk comp, Ugly Things.

It came out of the sky: the Balwyn UFO

When you live perpetually behind the 8-ball like I seem to do, sometimes you’re a tad slow in acknowledging important dates and anniversaries. And this week, I’m kicking myself for not recognising the 50th anniversary of the Westall UFO sighting, which I covered in this blog some time ago. Apparently there were TV specials commemorating the occasion and everything. 

Anyway, one interesting thing to emerge from the latest flurry of media interest in this great unsolved Melbourne mystery is the fact that, just four days before the Westall incident, there was another sighting not too far away, in the skies of Balwyn. And a photo exists of the unidentified flying object in question.

Snapped in the Balwyn sky, April 2, 1966. Photograph: James Kibel

The photo above was snapped by a Melbourne businessman named James Kibel from the back garden of his parents’ house. He was there overseeing some renovations for them while they were on holiday and had gone into the garden to finish off the film in his old Polaroid camera when – as he explained in an interview soon afterwards with physicist and UFO researcher James McDonald – “I noticed a terrific flash on the garden as if, similar to the flash produced by a mirror in a heliograph type flash on the ground. It…enveloped half the garden, and gave me a fright.”

As the photo shows, the object appeared to be of polished metal. “It seemed to float down towards me,” Kibel described in another interview with Peter Norris for specialist publication Flying Saucer Review. “It resembled a big mushroom with the stalk pointing towards earth.

“Then it spun through a 180-degree angle on its vertical axis to take up the position in which I photographed it. It then turned slowly through another 180 degrees on its horizontal axis to bring the stalk part facing me.

“From an almost stationary position it shot off, northerly at terrific speed, accelerating to what seemed to be hundreds of miles an hour in seconds.”

It seems that Kibel has only recently allowed his real name to be used in relation to the sighting: at the time, he chose to remain anonymous for any interviews he did, well aware of the ridicule he’d attract from the sensible brigade. Being quite a high-profile Company Director, he didn’t want that kind of hassle.

Funnily enough, in the interview with Norris, he was given the alias James Brown!

Blimey indeed: the tone of this headline gives some indication why Kibel chose to stay anonymous

Once the object shot off out of sight, Kibel dashed around to the other side of the house, hoping that the carpenter who was there working on the renovation might have witnessed it too. Unfortunately, he’d been hard at work and missed the whole spectacle. However, he did see the Polaroid photo emerging from the camera, and later vouched that Kibel hadn’t doctored it in any way. 

Although the mysterious craft had been totally silent while Kibel was watching it, both men heard a great boom “like a plane breaking the sound barrier” as they waited for the photo to process. 

I want to believe…

Unlike Westall, where 200 people witnessed the flying saucer and corroborated each other’s accounts, nobody else came forward about the Balwyn UFO. Apparently Kibel did the rounds of the neighbours, but to no avail. Somehow they all missed it, reflective mirror-like flashes and all. In his interview with McDonald, Kibel shares his theory as to how and why this might be so:

“Well, it’s quite an exclusive residential area that’s mainly populated by older people. It’s not really unusual for people not to see these things I’d say but (…) but the other thing is too, that there could have been others that saw it but just wouldn’t say anything about it. I think this is a good possibility. I’d feel quite certain someone else must have seen it, but whether they said anything about it is another thing.” (For a complete transcription of the interview and a hell of a lot more detail about the sighting, go here.)

As someone who used to sit on her back porch at night, trying to send telepathic communications to outer space in the hope of making contact with extraterrestrial life forms, I’m possibly less sceptical than some when it comes to reports of UFO sightings. And I see no reason to doubt the testimonies of those who were at Westall that fateful day in April 1966. 

But one aspect of the Balwyn sighting strikes me as suspicious — or at least conveniently coincidental. Not only was James Kibel a member of the Victorian Flying Saucer Research Society, but this was not the first time he’d seen an unidentified flying saucer! I mean, seriously: what are the chances? Did he conjure up the thing through his sheer will to believe? Or was the photo staged with a strategically thrown light shade? (It wouldn’t be the first time)

I’d like to think not. And certainly, Mr Kibel’s interviews all seem extremely consistent, considered, and matter of fact. 

Plus there’s this: a photo of a craft sighted flying over the Rocky Mountains, southwest of Provo, Utah, in July 1966. 

Anyone else see a certain resemblance to the Balwyn UFO? Not identical by any means: more like two models of vehicle from the same manufacturer. In the same way as, say, an HD looks like an EH, but obviously isn’t one.

Or it could just be a light shade hurled into the air...

For the cool trendy blokes

While I've showcased plenty of groovy 60s chicks in this blog, I'm the first to admit that I haven't given the same kind of coverage to Melbourne's stylin' blokes of the era. But stumbling upon this priceless article from a 1968 issue of Go-Set, I figured it was high time to redress this imbalance. 

But first, a few highlights from the article, which boasts 'easy fashion ideas for the swinging blokes in the GO SET'. These ideas are based around a simple suit pattern, and the author encourages any interested chaps to con their sister, mum or girlfriend into making one or more for them.

Calico and satin are suggested as ideal fabrics, and the writer advises extra-wide legs on the trousers so 'they flap around and keep your legs cool. Of course, no socks, just sandals!' 

But the real genius moment is saved for last: adapting the shirt for the beach.

'For the beach, the same shirt; shorter, and minus sleeves. A huge pocket for fags, glasses, bottle opener and all the other things that blokes carry. This is much zappier than a T-shirt, and to be really smart, get some enterprising bird to make you a matching hat.' By Jove, I believe that's the first time I've ever come across the words 'fags', 'zappier' and 'enterprising bird' in the same paragraph!

Alternatively, a go-getting go-setting guy could always have pinched a few ideas from the following local style stars:

Melbourne's real 'cool trendy blokes' (in no particular order)

1) One of my top local fashion faves has got to be Doug Ford. I was originally dazzled by Doug when I saw him with an ad hoc incarnation of the Masters Apprentices back in 2004 - with his pointy wizard's hat, chunky pendant and long scraggly hair, he came across like some kind of defiant single-fingered salute to ageing boringly. So great. (More about that memorable gig here). 

Doug demonstrating how to do sideburns (right)

In his 60s hey day (and before the 70s got their boganoid clutches into him), Doug had the best hair, coolest sideburns and a personal style that was flamboyant without being quite as foppish as his more extroverted bandmate, Jim Keays. And all set off by that cheeky baby face. What's not to love?

Gangster chic at Catcher. Lobby Loyde looks uncharacteristically stylish too!

2) Wit and a sharp intellect will never go out of style, and Barry Humphries is living proof. Just look at him in this photo, taken in Melbourne in 1969, lounging against the lamp post like a model, rocking a killer combo of polka-dot neckerchief, raffishly tilted hat and Philip Marlowesque trench coat. Add to this his casually dangling ciggy and eyes full of knowing amusement, and we've got the embodiment of bohemian cool.

Meanwhile, his alter-ego Dame Edna remains a fashion icon to this day, with her mauve rinse and maximalist approach to all things sparkly. But check her out below, in this rare 60s go-go ensemble! I have no idea what the context is, but it's fab (albeit just a tad bizarre)!

I could do with a pair of boots like that...

3) And speaking of Humphries, I grew up believing that The Loved Ones' Gerry Humphrys was Barry's brother! It was only recently that I discovered it was Gerry himself who spread that rumour. But while there may not be a family connection, both men do share a certain je ne sais quoi... 

Gerry gives a masterclass in style

Calico and satin may be the fabrics of choice for Go-Set's fashion writer, but personally, I think velvet is a groovier choice. While we'll never know what colour the suit was that Gerry's wearing in the photo above, it's pretty obvious he wore it well, teamed with a silky shirt and psychedelic tie. I also think we're safe in assuming his ensemble probably tended towards the brighter end of the spectrum rather than sticking to 'tasteful' standards, especially if the photo below is any indication...

I love how we see the photographer's shadow too.

Wowsers, this is some back-yard happy snap! Candy-cane stripes on top of humbug stripes -- not everyone could pull that combo off, particularly with bare feet into the bargain. Needless to say, Gerry does, looking for all the world like Lord Byron's 60s lovechild. 

4) And here we have Melbourne-born character actor, Frank Thring! Possibly best known for his scene-stealing swords-and-sandals turn as Pontius Pilate in Ben Hur (and unforgettable as creepy Superintendent Cobham in Mad Dog Morgan), Frank turns up the sartorial splendour in this amazing photo. I don't know what I love more: the uber-cool shades, the white polo-neck, the dramatically upturned collar, the villainous moustache...or his theatrical pose. Timeless style.

Frank was no ham

Frank also had a recurring role on iconic 60s Aussie kids' show, Skippy, as the evil Dr Stark. To quote The Standells, "Sometimes good guys don't wear white"...and sometimes bad guys do. Once again, Frank is looking effortlessly sharp in his pristine suit and hat -- but what absolutely nails his look here is that baby koala he's cradling. Just perfect.

Let's face it, koalas improve any photo

5) Tall, blond and magnificently mod, The Purple Hearts' Mick Hadley must've cut a striking figure onstage back in the day -- even before he opened his mouth and that incredible voice came belting out. His striped jeans are less technicoloured than Gerry Humphrys' and more Pop; in fact, he's looking pretty Biff-Bang-Pow all round in the photo below. Some of today's frontmen could learn a thing or two from slick Mick.

Mick Hadley in full flight

Anyone else detect a street-fighting young Roger Daltrey vibe in the below pic? With his sullen expression, close-cropped hair and obligatory red, white and blue sweater, Mick looks ready to nut a greaser with that pick-axe (or whatever it is) he's holding. Lobby Loyde, on the other hand, resembles an amiable teddy bear clutching his tyre iron (or whatever that thing is) he's holding. (And no, tools are not my forte.)

Who gets your vote for Melbourne's sharpest-dressed 60s bloke? Obviously, they can be transplants from other cities -- just as long as there's a Melbourne connection. 

Related posts

Mystery girl: Jan Stewart

Melbourne song of the month: Chicago/Purple Hearts

Melbourne song of the month: The Loved One/The Loved Ones

Melbourne song of the month: 5:10 Man/The Masters Apprentices

News flash!

Hola amigos!
Attentive readers may remember that I wrote an article about Melbourne's most adorable 60s one-hit wonders The Mystrys for the English music magazine Shindig! last year.

Well, my latest article for the mag may be of interest to some of you too - it's a career retrospective of The Bo-Weevils, possibly the wildest 60s throwback band to come out of the great garage revival that flourished in Melbourne during the mid-1980s.

It's in issue #52, which came out a little while ago but is probably only now filtering into newsagents beyond Old Blighty. Look for The Zombies on the cover!

Then and now: Wolfgang Sievers' Collins Street

Happy holidaze, everyone! I hope your festive season has been fab so far. Santa was kind enough to bring me Angus O’Callaghan’s long-awaited opus, Melbourne, which is almost blinding in its beauty—but also quite poignant in its portrayal of an era long-since past. Let’s face it: Melbourne may still be the best city in Australia, but it ain’t what it used to be, and O’Callaghan’s book is a stunning reminder of that.

But it’s not just O’Callaghan’s photos that have this effect on me. The photography of Wolfgang Sievers—subject of today’s post—can evoke a similar sense of longing for times gone by. I wonder if there’s a psychological term to describe nostalgia for a decade you never experienced in the first place? I know I’m not the only one afflicted by the condition.

But moving right along to Mr Sievers: and specifically, his photos of Collins Street, one of the CBD's main thoroughfares which was, as we will see, extremely photogenic in its 1960s heyday.

Collins Street. Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, courtesy National Libray of Australia; vn-3334045-v

An eye for style

As mentioned elsewhere in this blog, Wolfgang Sievers was a German-born photographer who immigrated to Australia and settled in Melbourne in 1938, setting up a studio in South Yarra. After WWII broke out, he volunteered for the Australian Army – just like his countryman Henry Talbot – and served between 1942 and 1946. (Actually, the Gestapo had their sights set on him for aerial photography duties with the Luftwaffe just before he fled Europe!). 

Once back in civilian society, Sievers moved his base of operations to Grosvenor Chambers, a suite of artists’ studios at the Parliament end of Collins Street that had once housed Aussie Impressionists Charles Condor, Arthur Streeton and Tom Roberts, among other luminaries. And when he wasn’t off taking eerily epic architectural photos and pics of menacing-looking industrial machinery, Sievers was outside snapping the local streetlife. 

Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, 1964; courtesy National Library of Australia; WS 2523-Na

I love the dappled shade on the footpath, and the shop signage: particularly the neon ‘Spectacle Makers’ sign. I mean, do optometrists even call glasses ‘spectacles’ these days? And judging by the trio of women strolling together in the foreground, and the lady going into a shop behind them, white was obviously a là mode.

Here's another one taken from a similar vantage point: 

Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, 1964, courtesy National Library of Australia, vn-3353435-v

Note the partially obscured sign for ‘La Caprice’. From the little I’ve been able to uncover, La Caprice was a café, the interior of which Sievers actually photographed in 1956. Now, I know it falls outside this blog's chronological remit, but get a load of this for some schmick mid-century style: 

La Caprice. Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, 1956; copyright holder unknown. I bet they made a mean espresso.

....And here’s how that particular stretch of Collins Street looks now: spot the difference! 

No caption required.

Admittedly, my amateur photographics don’t exactly enhance the aesthetics, but honestly, can anyone tell me what the hell’s happened to women’s fashion in the last 51 years? Not to mention trends in street umbrellas. 

Meanwhile, a spot of research prompted by the following photo of the Oriental Hotel yielded some interesting history. It turns out that this hotel, once located at 17 Collins Street, was quite the local legend once upon a time....

Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, copyright holder unknown

Not only did the Oriental establish Melbourne’s first side-walk café in 1958, it was also responsible for the city's first American-style cocktail bar (whatever that means), its first steak restaurant and its first discotheque. A favourite with the sophisticated set, the Oriental’s consciously Continental style was the impetus for the top end of Collins Street becoming known as the ‘Paris end’, a label which, as we all know, endures even now.

Mind you, not all those who frequented its public spaces were frocked-up in their Friday-night finest. A group of journalists from the Herald, who liked to call themselves the ‘Morning Tea Club’, used to meet at Oriental bar at 11am every day for their morning, ahem, heart-starter. I can only imagine how lively those sessions got...

Sadly, like the historic Southern Cross hotel, the Oriental was sacrificed in the name of ‘progress’, being demolished in 1971 to make way for Collins Place. These days, you’d never even guess it’d been there….

But we don't want to end on a sad note, right? 

So here's one final, fond farewell to Collins Street as seen through Sievers' keen eyes...

Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, courtesy National Library of Australia, vn-3353472-v