REAL PEOPLE

George Eustis Sings, 1953

A few years ago, I stumbled across this folk album online and was immediately intrigued by its old-fashioned, unusual cover — something about it felt both out of time and deeply private.

It turned out to be an immsersive but minimal folk album by George Eustis, which carries a certain lightness, yet also a dark seriousness. Between those two moods lie passages that feel abstract, at times left open or recomposed, creating a delicate, shifting balance. For being released in 1953 it feels ahead of it's time, strangely modern in a way.

Eustis wrote most of the music himself, added his own lyrics, and even composed one song entirely on his own.
He seemed to explore every possible way of arriving at a song, and his deep sense of musical history shows — it’s a clever, honest, and quietly mesmerizing album.

During his time at Yale, George met Oakleigh Thorne II, the producer of this album, who would later go on to run Owl Records in Boulder, which later became known for the Propinquity LP — reissued years afterward by Numero Group. (Thank you guys for telling me!)

Unfortunately it's unclear where George ended up or if he is still alive.
I Hope you enjoy it as much as i do!

Gary Day – Pickin’ N’ Singin’ At Silver Spur

This find has always been kind of special to me — that little photo of the handicapped banjo player was what first drew my attention.

His sole known LP was privately pressed through RCA’s custom pressing division between 1962 and 1964, as indicated by the matrix number K8OP-6869/6870.

The music itself must have been recorded significantly earlier — probably around 1949.

Based on the pressing and where my two surviving copies were found (including one near Kankakee, IL, and the other in Milwaukee, WI), the record was most likely pressed at RCA Indianapolis.

Additional evidence, including the look and feel of the photo, strongly suggests that the cover photo was taken at the Silver Spur Saloon in Maple Park, Illinois — a small rural bar that’s been in operation since the 1950s, probably even earlier.
The wooden backdrop of the bar fits quite well.

The entire album has the feel of a personal recording — likely a home session, possibly using a reel-to-reel or acetate disc recorder, sitting in an empty Silver Spur. I have the feelings you can here cars drive by at some points.

The photo shows him with a bandaged hand, which might indicate a recent injury, suggesting this has been pressed for a specific, personal purpose.

It’s pure, minimal, and kind of hypnotic . A record that really hits the term "private". If you know anything about Gary or the Silver Spur Saloon, feel free to reach out.
I would love to unfold this story completely.
It’s such a unique recording that definitely has to tell something.

Van Garner & Polished By The Master

"Support Music At Home", 2003 documentary "Off the Charts", shizophrenia, where to begin with?



Van Garner was a man who had seen too much.
The liner notes describe a nervous breakdown, paranoia, the hollow years of self-pity and bitterness.

But out of that darkness came an idea — a dream of freedom in Religion. Garner turned the fragments of a broken mind into the outlines of a gospel-country universe that only ever existed once, on this strange and somehow indescribable private pressing from Chattanooga, Tennessee.

The music itself i would lovingly call "polyhead christo lounge" and "Support Music At Home" is probably one of the best things i ever seen written on an LP.
I would say it means a lot truly.

Everything feels slightly off and yet deeply sincere.

Tammy Rena' & Joe Cleve

The amateurish arrangements, which are absolutely flawless on the other side, makes it sound like they had not much time in the recording studio — halfway between devotional pop and living room country, drifting in that curious in-between zone that only the song-poem industry could create.

Everything feels slightly off and yet deeply sincere.

The Sho-Men

Garner wasn’t a professional songwriter in the industry sense — he was a poet, a searcher. His poems, which i found on a poem-website, probably uploaded by himself in 2003, reveal the same heart and easiness that runs through his recordings.

In Poetry, he calls it “the mind’s greatest reward,” .

He even reappears years later, unexpectedly, in the 2003 documentary Off The Charts: The Song Poem Story — credited alongside a Rodd Keith composition on the soundtrack. It’s a fitting footnote: Garner’s voice drifting through that world of self-made dreamers and mail-order believers, people who sent their words to companies just to see if they might come back as music.

(Topaz)

The Singing Caruso's (Ray & Dorothy)

A family portrait from Fort Lauderdale




I wouldn’t call this the kind of record I usually connect with. It’s far more traditional, more classical in its expression than the music I tend to listen to or want to write about.
The voices are bright, theatrical, definitely too much at times, but hey, it's opera!

Still, there’s something about it that's quiet unique. Maybe it’s the sincerity, or the way the arrangements feel spiritual and alive.

"The Singing Caruso's – (Ray and Dorothy)", a privately pressed LP released on the Ft. Lauderdale Label "SRS International".

The cover looked like any other private lounge LP from the late ’70s — the typical sunset stock cover, some quiet typography — but the sound turned out to be something different than i hoped for.

The production is surprisingly refined: clearly a professional studio recording, with rich but rather minimal arrangements.
It’s the kind of music that unfolds in slow movements.


A restaurant that was also a stage

According to a 1982 article by Ellie Linger in the Fort Lauderdale News and Sun-Sentinel, Ray Caruso was both chef and singer at his own restaurant.

The photograph in the piece shows him in the kitchen, preparing dinner before going out to perform — “Ray Caruso cooking before stepping on stage to sing.”



It’s a quiet, cinematic detail.

Ray and his wife Dorothy ran Caruso’s Restaurant in Boca Raton, where they sang nightly for their guests.

At the time of the article, Ray had just returned to performing after several months of radiation therapy. The tone of the piece is affectionate — not about illness, but about continuity: a man who never stopped doing what he loved.

(Source: Fort Lauderdale News and Sun-Sentinel, March 4, 1982)


Two lives woven into one

The back cover of the LP offers short biographies.

Dorothy was born in Tennessee and grew up in Chicago. She studied ballet, drama and voice, toured the U.S. for a year, and later auditioned for Ray at his restaurant.
He hired her. A year later, they were married.



She sang with the American Opera Company in Chicago, auditioned privately at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, and was even offered a screen test for The Jeanette MacDonald Story — which she turned down to stay home with her family.



Ray’s story stretches further back. Born in Chicago, raised in Florence, Italy, he returned to the U.S. at eighteen.

He performed at the 1953 World’s Fair in Chicago’s “Italian Village” and later opened The Singer’s Rendezvous, his first restaurant — a place for musicians, theater people, and late-night wanderers. Eventually, he brought that spirit to Florida, where Caruso’s became both dinner spot and stage.

Raymond J. Ruyack - Unfinished Dream #17

Unfinished Dream #17 – The Lost Tapes of Rockin’ Ray Ruyack (1967–1985)





(As always for this blog, scroll down, start the music and take the ride!)

The album Unfinished Dream #17 by Raymond J. Ruyack is one of these rare time capsules that will haunt you after the first listen — a private pressing from 1986, made not as a product, but as a family’s way of keeping a memory alive.

The record never had a cover, no liner notes, no commercial ambition. Basically, it is a compilation of Ray's first home recordings, released by his brother a year after his passing.

Just a stark red label with the title, a name and an Insert which some copies came with. It carries more life than most records that ever made it to a store shelf.






I came across this LP by chance on eBay, scrolling past hundreds of nondescript listings.

The number “17” in the title caught my attention immediately — my own birthday falls on November 17th. It’s not a sign, but sometimes details like that just catch you.
Holding the record, I had no idea whose story I was about to uncover.

What followed was the discovery of one of the most hauntingly personal albums I’ve ever heard.

(a collage of Ray's notes and personal memories)

More Than a Local Hero

Raymond John Patrick Ruyack was born on November 17, 1967, in Yonkers, New York.
One of five siblings, he grew up in a family where music wasn’t just a hobby — it was a given. Beatles singalongs with wooden spoons, a father who strummed old tunes in the kitchen, and a mother who made sure everyone had at least some kind of lesson.

But Ray had his own approach to learning. He was once “fired” from piano lessons because he preferred building forts in the woods over practicing scales. His sister Ronda later recalled this with a smile — it was just who Ray was. Structured learning bored him. He was a kid who needed to discover things on his own terms.

“He was mom’s favorite. He didn’t call her ‘mom’ or ‘mommy’. He called her ‘Oh My Little Mommy’. It was both nauseating and absolutely adorable at the same time.” – Ronda

Everything changed when he got his first drum kit for Christmas.

("Santa Ray" and Mother Sally)

A Ludwig set with Zildjian cymbals.
From that moment on, Ray lived behind the kit.

He became obsessed with mastering solos by Phil Collins, Neil Peart, Gene Krupa — playing until his hands blistered. But it wasn’t just about skill. Ray had perfect pitch — he could dissect any melody instantly.



By middle school, he was already being pulled into high school bands.

In his teens, he joined Fusion Illusion, a group that became something of a local legend.

He played in the Concert Band, Jazz Band, Orchestra, Marching Band, and even in pit bands for school musicals.
On stage, he was a natural — twirling drumsticks, pulling off his shirt mid-song, improvising through mistakes like they were part of the act.

But there was another side to Ray.
A quieter, more introspective side that came out not under stage lights, but in the living room of his childhood home — armed with a boombox and a piano.

The Recordings: A Portrait in Progress



Between 1983 and 1985, Ray started recording song sketches, improvisations, and fragments directly onto cassette tapes.

No external mic, no studio — just the hiss of tape, the hum of a lived-in house, and a teenage boy figuring things out. Chairs creak. A phone rings. Someone coughs. A grandmother sits quietly and listens.

This is the world of Unfinished Dream #17. It’s not an album in the traditional sense — it’s a snapshot of a young artist mid-process. Some tracks, like the twelve-minute “Song of Life”, unfold like meditative explorations: repetitive, hypnotic, but never static.

Others, like “Improvisation #17”, feel like diary entries — loose, intimate, unfinished.

(Notes from Raymond)

On Side Two, things get more experimental.

Synth textures appear. There’s a delicate flute duet played by his sister. And scattered throughout are unfinished sketches that feel like they were still being born.

One standout is “Music Box Lullaby (For Grandma)” —
a small, aching piece that somehow says more than any lyric could, written for his beloved Grandmother.

And yet, beneath the rhythmic confidence, there’s a noticeable fragility. You can hear it in the pauses, in the slight hesitations before a chord, in the breath that escapes before the next note. For someone known as “Rockin’ Ray” — a kid who once posed flipping the camera off — these recordings show someone else entirely. It’s as if the louder he performed in public, the softer he allowed himself to be in private.


The album ends with “Illusion Drum Solo” — the only live band track on the record. It’s like a curtain call, a reminder of where it all began.
And if you listen closely, somewhere on the tape, you’ll hear him sing. Barely audible. A melody, a breath. It doesn’t feel like you’re listening to a recording. It feels like you’re there.

SYNC Inc. - How About A Hand! 1975

The Story of Peter “Sync” Bruno



Peter Bruno, better known by his stage name Peter Sync, is one of the many unsung voices of the 1970s—a musician whose only known recording, How About a Hand!, has been rediscovered nearly 50 years after its creation. The album offers a rare glimpse into the life of a talented yet troubled artist who never had the chance to fully share his music with the world, yet whose work carries a profound emotional weight that lingers long after the final note fades.

(Peter & his brother Spencer)

Born in 1950 in New York, Peter grew up in a musically inclined household where his early exposure to music fostered a deep and lifelong connection to sound. His first instrument was the accordion, but it was the piano that truly captured his imagination. Peter’s transition from accordion to piano marked the beginning of his journey into the rock and pop music of the 1960s, which would shape his artistic identity. By the time he graduated high school in 1968, Peter was already immersed in the local music scene, playing in bands and writing his own songs. His love for The Beatles, particularly the experimental richness of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and The White Album, had a profound influence on his musical style, shaping his compositions with complex structures and emotional depth.

In the early 1970s, while Peter played in several rock bands in L.A., he took a bold step toward his musical dreams and moved there, hoping to break into the competitive industry. But his time in L.A. was tragically short-lived. Within a month, Peter’s escalating psychotic episodes—triggered in part by his experimentation with mescaline, LSD, and heroin—overcame him. Recognizing that his son needed support, Peter’s father brought him back to New York, cutting short the dream of becoming a rock star. Still, Peter’s creative drive never waned. Instead of retreating into despair, he channeled his energy into writing and recording music from the quiet confines of his family home.

(early days of Peter playing the accordion)

Between 1972 and 1975, Peter wrote and recorded the five tracks that would eventually comprise his only EP "How About a Hand!". These recordings, made at quiet famous Minot Studios (White Plains, N.Y.), were a reflection of his inner world—a place where he sought solace in music amidst the turbulence of his mind.

It was in this isolated space that Peter’s older brother, Spencer Bruno, a professional musician and Music Director of the Lester Lanin Orchestra, stepped in to help bring the project to life. Spencer recruited a select group of top-tier New York session musicians, including a trumpeter from the Ray Charles Orchestra, while contributing his own saxophone and clarinet to the mix. Despite the involvement of these accomplished musicians, the album’s arrangements were entirely Peter’s work, meticulously written out, with no room for improvisation. This attention to detail highlights Peter’s deep sense of control over his artistic vision—an attempt to preserve his identity through music in a world that often felt beyond his grasp.

The Sponge , 1987

Here is "THE SPONGE".

One of the rather timeless pieces of the 80s.
A short living music project formed by some students in Massachusetts.

Wolfgang is still active as a DIY Jazz musician, doing great stuff outside the lines.

After i discovered this record, i had to do what the writing on the sleeve told me: "Call Wolfgang".

For sure, this record was made long time ago, so Wolfgang`s phone number from the sleeve, obviously, isn`t the same anymore. For my luck he moved back to Austria, so i had a good time giving him a call in mother tongue.


Here is what Wolfgang told me about THE SPONGE:

“The Sponge was a spontaneous decision.
I knew Johnny Wingstedt from Berklee College—he now lives back in Sweden—as well as Mario Horikawa, who’s now in Japan again.

We graduated from Berklee in 1986 and wanted to start a band that would play both original pieces and some cover tunes.

To find a drummer, I walked through the practice rooms and listened through the doors to hear who was playing. I knocked on one door because I liked what I heard—that’s how I met Aaron Comess. I asked him if he was interested, and he agreed.

Gary Davidson - Waves, 1981

Some records don’t need to be loud to leave a lasting mark.

Waves by Gary Davidson is one of those albums.

A quietly shimmering piece of folk-infused soft rock that lingered in obscurity for over four decades, until it unexpectedly resurfaced.



Waves offers all the hallmarks of a late ’70s / early ’80s AOR-leaning folk-rock album — smooth production, melodic guitar lines, space between the instruments.

But beneath the surface, the album carries a different weight.
Instead of confident bravado, there’s a subtle, searching quality in both voice and lyrics — not uncertain, but reflective.
It’s the sound of someone trying to understand, rather than impress.

The more one listens, the clearer it becomes that this is the work of someone who valued honesty above polish.

Reflecting his way through early adulthood, relationships, and the tension between inner life and outer expectations.



Gary Davidson was born in 1956 and grew up in southern California.
In 1970, at age 14, he moved with his family to Colorado — the place that would later become the creative backdrop for Waves.

He began writing songs at around 18, many of them about love, intimacy, and emotional complexity — particularly shaped by his relationship with his then-girlfriend Sheila.

By Gary’s own account, he was a shy, quiet person — someone who didn’t feel comfortable performing in front of large audiences.
He preferred smaller, more intimate settings — a tendency that shaped the entire spirit of Waves.

Live shows were rare, but not entirely absent.

Over the years, he played at several coffeehouses as a duo with his friend David Reimer — the guitarist who also contributed to Waves.
Though they didn’t perform regularly, these appearances offered a glimpse into the atmosphere the record captured: gentle, direct, and unguarded.



In 1979, Gary’s older brother Randy Carl Davidson opened One Stop Records, a store in Lake Tahoe, California.
The following year, Gary went west to work there.

It was Randy — described by Gary as a strong believer in his talent — who would ultimately help raise the funds to record Waves. But the store’s success was short-lived: a large chain, Peaches, opened in the same mall and forced them out of business.

Gary returned to Colorado — and soon after, the recording process began.

The album was recorded across two or three months in 1981, during over 80 hours of sessions.

Tracking was done at the American Recording Studio with Dan Diamond as the engineer. Mixing and mastering took place at the Aspen Recording Society studio, with Richie Cicero engineering.
Aspen Studios was a modest but well-regarded studio located in a business park in Aspen, Colorado.



Gary composed all the material himself and played all the guitar parts on the album — despite some promotional photos showing him at the piano.

He clarified later that while he sometimes composes at the piano, he didn’t play any keys on Waves.
His songwriting process was described as intuitive: the melodies would appear, and he’d follow them with focused attention, so they would build up theirselves in his mind.

Keith Reedy - INSIGHT Vol. 1 / 1983

A story of collapse, faith and unheard resonance

Let’s follow the journey of an artist whose story remains painfully not "in-sight".

An exceptionally sad, minimalistic album – maybe the most meaningful point of change in an artist’s life I’ve ever come across.


Keith Reedy was once known as a blind, hard-drinking honky-tonk musician from the Wabash Valley area. His regional hit “Drinkin’ Billy’s Beer” brought him local fame – how bitterly ironic that title feels now, I’ll leave unspoken.

On the website Bibles For The Blind, Reedy openly shares how destructively and selfishly he lived in his early years, shaped by an “I want what I want” mindset.
And to be honest, I see parallel lines to many collectors I’ve come across over time.

Toni Lucca & Company, 1978

Scroll down, start the second video, and let's go!

While researching Toni, aka Ron Lucca, I stumbled upon some truly breathtaking moments and insights from his past. I was completely captivated by the anecdotes shared by Mike McGettigan, the bass player on Ron Lucca’s only LP, released in 1978.

Ron Lucca started building his own guitars back in 1969. This hobby eventually turned into his business, later known as “Lucca Guitars” — instruments crafted with such care and quality that they’re rarely seen these days. McGettigan's and Lucca's first encounter was likely at the Piano Tuners Guild in Philadelphia; both were active members. Mike remembered how he somehow ended up in Lucca's living room, auditioning - playing his Fender Precision bass through an Ampeg B-15 amplifier–in those days, considered the ideal setup for electric bass tone back in the day. He recalls Lucca as a Leader, and he meant that in the best possible way. Lucca could play almost any song by ear during their live shows. He relied on his powerful memory and knowledge of song structure to take audience requests. McGettigan confesses that he couldn't always keep up: "I would have to watch Toni's hands for chord changes like a hawk." McGettigan recalled the nervousness and if he saw Lucca’s back while playing, "...that meant he expected me to know where I was going, ha."

There was one strict rule in the band: always wear a jacket and tie. Their drummer, Bob Taylor, was very young, but a seasoned professional — he had played everywhere, following in his father's big-band footsteps. "Bob could get a cigarette out of the pack, light it, and not lose a beat on the drums," McGettigan laughed.
The nightclub scene could be challenging. "There was this really tiny spot called 'Al's Little Cas-Bar', where Al would gesture frantically from behind the counter to our drummer, asking him to play more softly, even with brushes!"

Toni, like a few other imaginative pop guitarists, would sometimes run his guitar through a Leslie organ cabinet–its rotating speakers helped him get a fuller sound both on stage and in the studio. "We also remembered it because Leslie cabinets are one seriously heavy piece of furniture, that no one enjoyed moving to and from the gigs," McGettigan recalls.
For Lucca, playing his own compositions was paramount. That’s why they quickly went into the studio to record his one and only vinyl album. Mike wasn’t a professional bass player and still wondered why Lucca had chosen him for Toni & Company. "Both Bob and Toni had "chops" that I didn't have–to be honest, I was just barely hanging in there," McGettigan says. "I sometimes think I got hired because I had a sense of humor and was easy to get along with, more than my bass parts."

Toni admired George Benson deeply and was taught by old Italian and Black jazz musicians — and among his main influences was Lucca's long-time teacher Joe Sgro, a legend in Philly's jazz guitar community. Sgro would transcribe Paganini violin solos for guitar, and the tribe of virtuoso jazz guitarists in Philadelphia were in demand for studio and touring work in those days.