Imagine going back to your favorite space from your misspent youth: the unlikely place where you found life-long friends and fleeting love, where you found your people, passion, and purpose for the first time, where you really understood who you were.
That impossible essential place that meant so much at that moment in time, decades ago, when you were first becoming the person you are today, that you couldn’t imagine life without it.
And suddenly, it’s decades later, and while the business is gone, the building remains – and you often think: If only I could get in there, just to see it one more time.
It’s an experience few Milwaukee Baby Boomers will ever have, as so many of the legendary night spots of the 1960s and 1970s have been lost to time.
But on Friday, April 25, two former Eastsiders met – for the first time in 53 years – at 1100 E. Kane Pl. for a heavy trip back to the summer of 1972.
A Summer of Love and Liberation
In the early 1970s, young men like Bobby Lambert and Peter Mortensen found themselves drawn to Milwaukee's East Side, a neighborhood already known as a countercultural hub.
"Nothing was happening for me until I went away to school," recalls Peter. "That's when I became me." Bobby echoes this sentiment, saying, "I feel like I didn't really start my life until I was 18. I couldn't come out until I was out of high school."
This era was marked by a long-simmering rage. People began to challenge societal norms, recognize injustices, and unite in protest to demand a better world. The Vietnam War cast a long shadow, fueling an outspoken anti-war movement and a desire for radical social change.
"People really believed there was a revolution coming," says Bobby. "So, what was the point of finishing college?"
For young gay men and women, this revolution was long overdue. While the Black Nite Brawl in 1961 had been a significant moment in Milwaukee's queer history, the Stonewall Uprising in 1969 ignited a new wave of activism. Peter and Bobby began to think of their own lives, not as deviants, but also as victims of systemic oppression. They became involved in the Gay Liberation Organization and the Gay Liberation Front, joining a growing movement for LGBTQ rights.
On a blustery winter day in January 1971, Bobby and Jerry Dreva, along with 23 others, marched in Wisconsin's first gay pride march. It was a historic moment, though they didn't fully realize it at the time.
Bobby and Peter became part of a large East Side circle, including artists, organizers, and educators.
Together and separately, Bobby and Peter explored Milwaukee's alternative nightlife. They were also deeply involved in the East Side counterculture scene, centered around spaces like Aquarius, Interabang, and the Granfalloon coffee shop.
Neptune Club: A Place for Us
In May 1972, a new establishment emerged: the Neptune Club. Located at 1102 E. Kane Pl., it was first described by GPU News (May-June 1972) as "a combination bar and restaurant...run by gays for gays." Neptune opened on Friday, May 26, with its grand opening party on Saturday, May 27.
The Neptune Club was not the first gay bar in Milwaukee, nor even the first gay bar on Milwaukee’s East Side. Chuck Cicirello (1943-2011) cut his teeth at the Castaways (196 S. 2nd St.) and later opened the Stud Club (435 W. Michigan St.) in 1971, which was known for its male go-go dancers. But the Neptune Club offered something different: a space that was entirely their own.
As Bobby and Peter recall, the Neptune Club quickly became a vital hub for the community.
"This was the first place that was our bar," says Bobby, "versus just being tolerated at other bars."
Peter adds, "You couldn't go into the River Queen with purple eyeshadow and feathers in your hair without getting strange looks from older people. We sometimes felt like a virus invading their space.”
“One night, I walked into the River Queen and some spiteful, mean-spirited queen said, ‘well, if it isn’t the Wicked Witch of the West?” Nobody had ever said anything like that to me before. I’d tied some peacock feathers into my long hair and I thought I looked fabulous. I became very self-conscious, wondering if I really belonged here.”
“Club Neptune was our space. We wore what we wanted to wear. Fuck you if you didn't like it."
The club was a place to dance, to socialize, to find connections and solidarity.
"We were filled with righteous anger," says Bobby, "and we worked out that rage on the dance floor. We'd come to Neptune every night. I spent the entire summer of 1972 here.”
Music was a central part of the experience – and now, a source of priceless memories.
"Jukeboxes were such a big deal, because we got to control the music," says Peter. "That was huge!”
“Slow dancing was a chance to hold another man in your arms, and at the time we didn't realize how rare that was. That experience simply didn’t exist before our generation, at least, not in public and never without fear. That was a major signal of change, of what we were claiming for ourselves.”
Memories of Neptune Club are intertwined with the music of the era: Bowie, Midnight Train to Georgia, United We Stand, Everyday People, and "Lola" by the Kinks, which always filled the dance floor.
For Bobby, Neptune Club was also the place where he met a very special someone.
"I met a hot guy, and he bought me a drink, but at first, he wouldn't give me his number," he recalls.
That man was Greg Jeresek, a well-known musician who had been in Michael & The Messengers, a Motown band that toured with the Supremes. Bobby and Greg spent the next 18 years together.
The troubles of Tommy Fish
Prior, after, and possibly even during the Neptune Club’s short-lived existence, the tavern at 1100 E. Kane Pl. was known as Fish’s Harbor Tavern.
The building had a long, curious history of its own. Built in 1900 near Van Buren Street and St. Paul Avenue, the structure was moved to its current location in 1907. For one hundred years, it was a tavern that rapidly changed hands through Polish and Italian owners.
During Prohibition, it was Edmund Machalinksi’s soft drink parlor; by 1938, it was the popular Slim’s Tavern “known for seafood and fish fries.” In 1946, bar owner Joseph Herkowski was cited for battery after doing thirty-six shots of whiskey and striking his wife in public. (“Thirty-six shots is an awful lot, judge,” he declared, and no one in the court dared to dispute his statement,” reported the Milwaukee Journal.) For most of the 1950s, the tavern was vacant, run-down, and often at risk of demolition.
Obviously, that never happened. Instead, it became Johnny’s Doll House, operated by Thomas “Tommy Fish” Piscitello (1921-).
Tommy Fish wasn’t a Mafia member, but he was clearly mob-adjacent, says Wisconsin Mafia historian Gavin Schmitt.
“His father was Peter Piscitello, who had a bit of a record, and his later pandering arrest makes it clear he was affiliated with Leroy Bell, quite possibly the Milwaukee Mafia’s biggest panderer. I’m not sure what (if any) connection he has to Edward Piscitello … who is also in the shadow of the mob.”
January 1958 FBI reports claim that Tommy Fish was a “local Italian hoodlum” contracted for “strong arm work.” The Milwaukee Police Department named Fish a “dangerous man” who was often used as an “enforcer.” He was also known as an operative of Harold Klein, a fencing operation mastermind, who orchestrated numerous burglaries in midcentury Milwaukee.
In April 1961, the Milwaukee police raided the Doll House, where Tommy was arrested for disorderly conduct, serving after hours, allowing after hours loitering, resisting arrest, and failing to provide a clear view of the premises. After racking up nine indictments since 1947, Tommy lost his license. Frank Sardina stepped in as license holder, and the business continued.
Six months later, the Doll House made headlines again, when a bartender’s girlfriend either jumped (or was thrown) from a moving car.
In July 1962, the Doll House failed the city “light meter” tests, which required bars to be “safely and socially illuminated” at all times. According to the Milwaukee Sentinel, the Doll House had one of the lowest readings: less than the lighting of an average candle. The newspaper listed a long line-up of “dark bars,” including all of the Milwaukee gay bars known to be operating at the time.
In 1963, the Common Council licensing committee made a scandalous decision to restore Fish’s bartending and business licenses. This was good timing, as Frank Sardina went bankrupt shortly afterwards. Despite the drama, Tommy Fish was back in business. The newly opened “Fish’s Harbor Tavern” advertised flown-in-fresh seafood, Italian spaghetti, and cocktail hour (with 50-cent double martinis and Manhattans!) By 1970, they’d also added live music and claimed to be the East Side’s hippest new dance spot.
But Tommy’s problems weren’t over yet. For reasons unknown, the bar license transferred to Donald Plumeri in 1971, when Tommy seems to either have “gone away” or gone underground for a while.
First, his name disappeared from Fish’s ads, and then, Fish’s just stopped advertising entirely. Nobody remembers ever seeing Tommy or Donald at the Neptune Club, or any other “management” types for that matter, only Chuck Cicirello.
“It was a cash business, and Chuckie was always at the door taking that cash,” remembered Peter.
Chuck, who sometimes went as “Chuck Balistreri,” enjoyed the influence and weight of the Balistreri name in Milwaukee nightlife.
However, he was not technically related to the Milwaukee crime family, nor did he hold any position in the organization.
His mother, Grace Mazza Cicirello (1912-1998) married Dominic Balistreri (1918-1962) after Chuck’s father Andrew died in 1949.
Curiously, though, Chuck was not only a cousin of Jimmy Zingale (long-time owner of Castaways) but also a cousin of Donald Plumeri – somehow – through the Mazza family tree.
Were Chuck and Donald brought in to keep the lights on at 1100 E. Kane (and the cash flowing) when Tommy Fish was laying low? We’ll never really know for sure. But this chain of events made something truly magical possible.
Life on the liberated East Side
As we stepped into the chilly bar, someone joked, “was there heat back then?” Peter replied, deadpan, “only the heat we brought.”
Peter and Bobby immediately noticed how much the interior had changed. The bar wasn’t quite as long back then, and it ended in a hostess station on the north end. There were columns on the perimeter of the dance floor, with tables lining the edge. The dancefloor – which once seemed so enormous – was no longer lit with red and blue colored lights or lined with mirrors. The stage was much smaller, but in a similar space. There’d been a jukebox along the eastern wall, and a small romantic porch out back along the river bluff.
The riverside view was quite different back then: less tall trees, no condominium buildings, no apartment blocks, and no chain stores on the hillside. Just a lot of noxious smells: from the tanneries, from the sausage factories, from the coal yard, and from the polluted river itself.
“Did people used to go outside and make out?” someone asked. “You could make out anywhere in the bar,” said Bobby. “You didn’t need to go outside for that.”
Across the street, there used to be a sleepy Department of Public Works ward yard, not a booming Bel Air Cantina. The intersection of Humboldt and Kane was so much quieter back then.
Neither Bobby nor Peter remembers the Neptune serving food, although their ads promised not only “excellent food at moderate prices” nightly, but a free Sunday brunch.
“There was a cover, maybe a dollar?” said Peter. “You cashed in your drink ticket – usually for a vodka gimlet or a gin and tonic – and nurse it all night long. If you were low on cash, you didn’t go bar hopping. You couldn’t get cash on weekends, holidays, or even at night. After the banks closed, you had to make your cash last.”
"Mind you, nobody had any money to spend, but no one really hassled you to spend any," says Peter.
The Neptune Club was more than just a bar; it was part of a booming generational movement on Milwaukee's East Side. The Kane Street Co-Op, the first co-op in Milwaukee and an ancestor of today’s Beans & Barley, was located next door, and nearby spaces like the Granfalloon coffee shop provided refuge and connection.
"You could always go out and find people to talk to. You could just hang and relax. We were witnessing the emergence of a new kind of family. It was just such a wonderful time in East Side history."
The neighborhood was a place where people could be themselves, free from the judgment and hostility they often faced elsewhere in Milwaukee. While Milwaukee police didn’t really raid gay bars – likely due to a complex payoff system going back decades – they did harass gay and gender non-conforming people on the streets.
But the East Side was different.
Bobby, who grew up in blue-collar Cudahy, recalls, "It was a great time to come out and be out. We had so much don't-fuck-with-us solidarity. We didn't care if people didn't like us. We didn’t care if people accepted us. That was the last thing we worried about.”
The East Side Mothers weren’t too happy about the Granfaloon becoming a gay hangout, and they weren’t thrilled about the Neptune either. As Peter notes, the late-night gatherings outside the bar sometimes drew the attention of the police.
"Imagine a mob of twentysomething gay men, who've been out dancing and drinking all night, pouring onto Kane Place, trying to find their next stop, and carrying on. Bars closed at 3:30 a.m. back then –but nobody ever wanted the party to end."
“The police would drive by and try to disperse us, and after their second visit, they weren’t quite as nice. I lived on Lafayette and Oakland, so I could make a quick exit. Sometimes, we’d stop at Glorioso’s Italian Villa for pizza, because it was open late to serve the afterbar crowd,” said Peter.
“I was living on Pleasant Street at the time,” said Bobby. “And my stop was Pitch’s for a BBQ rib sandwich – minus the ribs.”
“Things were just blossoming in the summer of 1972,” said Bobby. “All that fear about being ‘out’ and ‘known’ was now replaced by this bold we-dare-you-to-mess-with-us defiance. I have to believe this was unique to Milwaukee. Chicago folks used to come up by the carload, because they couldn’t legally dance together at home.”
The men reflected on how Neptune fit into the constellation of ‘70s gay nightlife.
“We loved Castaways, because it was racially and sexually integrated, which most bars weren’t at the time,” said Peter. “You had men, women, queens, Latinos, Blacks, everything and everyone on that dance floor. The only division at Castaways was whether or not you were a good dancer. Good dancers hung by the jukebox and dance floor, and bad dancers stuck around the entrance.”
“The Stud Club might have had go-go dancers, but we didn’t need any stinking go-go dancers at the Neptune,” said Peter. “We found the go-go boys tacky, because they represented the objectification of the gay lifestyle. They reinforced stereotypes and social expectations that you had to look a certain way to be attractive. For us, go-go boys were a symbol of oppression.”
“One of my dates took me to the Regency East,” said Peter, “and it was a real drag! They had Jim Nabors on the jukebox. It was so quiet, so dull, so uptight. Just not what I thought gay life was going to be about.”
“We used to go to Your Place to see Madame Kay play the piano,” said Bobby. “She was heavy-set, very Dame Edna, in rhinestone harlequin glasses. Kay was a former nurse whose morphine habit got her disbarred, so she wound up divorced and doing drag. Where did she wind up, I wonder? She was just marvelous.”
“YP was an elegant place,” remembered Peter. “I only went once. A date took me there to see this spectacular Christmas tree, and the snow was falling gently on the patio, and the twinkling lights were just radiant, and feeling this intense romantic moment.”
While there were certainly other places to go, Neptune was certainly home.
They remembered a wild cast of characters: a closeted UWM professor – who was married with children – who spent an awful lot of time cruising the gay scene; an inspiring eccentric named “Merlin” who lived in an old Victorian on Water Street; Sue Cavalier, a local businesswoman who owned Cavalier Antiques, one of Bobby’s first real jobs; Bob Romano, Milwaukee’s celebrity hairdresser; Duchess, Maxine, Miss Dionne, and Miss Sugar, the drag queen circuit of the time; and many, many more, most of whom are now long gone.
“Another time, I met two guys from Madison, and one of them got a little flirty and handsy,” said Peter. “He kept hanging around and eventually told me that he was gay. He wound up staying at the YIP (Youth International Party) House on Albion, where I was spending a lot of time. He was even there when we were planning the Smoke-In at the Alternate Site. As it turned out, he was an undercover cop! He was scoping out the local gay scene for the police.”
The persistence of memory
Over the years, Milwaukee's queer spaces have changed and evolved. Many of the bars and clubs that were so central to the community in the 1970s have closed, leaving behind memories and a sense of loss. Recently, This Is It – open for 57 years – abruptly closed without warning.
Upon exiting, Bobby and Peter lamented the missing stained-glass fish that once decorated the bar’s front window. Installed during the Fish’s Harbor era, the panel vanished long before the Tasting Room opened in 1993, and no photos have ever been located.
"Nobody had a final night here," says Peter. "If they did, they didn't know it was the final night. That’s just how it works. Nobody ever gets that chance to say their goodbyes.”
Strangely, an Aug. 7, 1972 armed robbery report named the business as Fish’s Harbor, and advertising resumed for the bar (listing Tommy Fish as manager) from New Year’s Eve 1973 through April 9, 1974, when it became Cosmo’s Tavern. By fall 1975, the tavern was Murphy’s Landing, owned by Mike Murphy and operated as a live music venue (including a short-lived jazz residency for Paul “Dr. Feelgood” Gerlat.) Some of the city’s biggest names, including the BoDeans, Paul Cebar and the Milwaukeeans, Die Kreuzen, Couch Flambeau, and Brian Ritchie of the Violent Femmes, later played at the venue.
Unfortunately, Tommy Fish had been working with Leroy Bell, a notorious Milwaukee pimp, to set up young women in “the lifestyle” and meet dates at Fish’s Harbor and Bell’s Tender Trap (514 E. Center St.). Between 1961 and 1974, Bell operated two prostitution houses that made over $1M. His empire came to a catastrophic end in 1975, when a John Doe investigation named Bell as one of five men supplying prostitutes to visiting actor Sid Caesar.
On Jan. 31, 1976, Bell was sentenced to 10 years in prison for his “incredible effect on the community in debasity, corruption, depravity and immorality.” On Dec. 30, 1975, Tommy Fish pleaded guilty to aiding and abetting prostitution. He received a much lighter sentence: nine months of Huber Law service in the House of Correction and a $400 fine.
By that time, Chuck Cicirello was at the height of his game. When Neptune Club closed, he moved on to open The Factory in March 1973. For the next 15 years, The Factory – in various formats at three locations – defined Milwaukee nightlife. Chuck later went on to operate the 27th Street Danceteria and Club 219 before his death in 2011.
After his sentencing, Tommy Fish disappeared from the headlines. He died Oct. 19, 1998 at the age of 77. His obituary mentioned The Doll House, but makes no mention of Fish’s Harbor or the Neptune Club at all.
In 1993, the Tasting Room opened at 1100 E. Kane, named for its remarkable selection of over one hundred beers (including rare imports and microbrews uncommon for Milwaukee at the time.) When it closed in 2005, the westward marquee read “closed for the season” for many, many seasons, leading to speculation that the bar might reopen in a future season. When the marquee disappeared, people came to realize the Tasting Room wasn’t coming back.
“Never fear, that sign is here inside the property,” said owner Carson Praefke, “but we still don’t have any plans to reopen as a bar anytime soon.”
Bobby’s diary last mentions Neptune on Aug. 10, 1972. While he knows he continued going through at least Halloween, that’s about where the memories stop.
Bobby and Jerry founded Les Petites Bon Bons, a high-concept queer arts collective far too big for Milwaukee to contain, especially after a photo shoot with the legendary Francis Ford propelled them into the ‘70s zeitgeist.
Jerry left for Los Angeles on May 29, 1972, only days after the Neptune opened. After receiving dozens of letters chronicling Jerry’s rock star adventures over seven months, Bobby and Greg left for Los Angeles in January 1973. Within 96 hours of his arrival, his legendary photo outside Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco was printed in a national rock magazine with the caption “This is Los Angeles.”
As it turned out, the story of Les Petites Bon Bons had only just begun – and before it was over, Bobby would cross paths with everyone from David Bowie to Iggy Pop to Lou Reed to Divine to Linda Lovelace, as one of the “jesters of the L.A. glitter rock scene.”
Bobby returned to northern Wisconsin in 2023, where he currently operates a gourmet food business.
During his 50 years in California, he became the archivist of the Les Petites Bon Bons legacy, especially after Jerry died in 1997 at age 52. Today, half of the Bon Bons are gone, and the survivors (including Richard Varga and Jim Sullivan) are scattered to the winds, but their story is more relevant than ever. Recently, Bobby entrusted a lifetime of archival materials to cultural historian Johan Kugelberg for preservation.
“The Bon Bons are having a real resurgence right now, thanks to the Pet Shop Boys (who released a song in their honor in 2024,)” said Bobby. “But my time with the Bon Bons archive is over. It’s someone else’s job now.”
“There was always so much danger in losing that history. And this history isn't documented or taught. We always knew our work would wind up in museums someday, but we didn’t realize it would take 50 years. Nobody saved anything except me. But that's what we were doing, that was the point of our art. It was all about creating these fleeting moments of unexpected joy, and fleeting moments don’t always make a good history exhibit."
After all these years, Peter still lives on the East Side, and the Neptune is still walking distance from home.
Reclaiming spaces and stories
For years, the Neptune Club was just a fleeting memory of its former customers. Today, there are efforts underway to document and preserve Milwaukee's queer history. Adam Thibodeaux, an instructor at UWM's School of Architecture and Urban Planning (SARUP), is working with the Wisconsin LGBTQ History Project to explore these spaces and their significance.
"The intention behind establishing a partnership between SARUP and the Wisconsin LGBTQ history project was primarily as an extension of my efforts to establish reciprocal relationships between academia and activist practices," Adam explains.
The project engages students like Morgan Greene, a fourth year Bachelor of Architecture student, who is delving into the history of spaces like the Neptune Club, uncovering stories and creating a record of this important part of Milwaukee's past.
“Last semester, I was part of Adam’s studio class that focused at looking into the architectural ‘ghosts' of buildings and then redesigning them with those ‘ghosts’ as a driving point,” said Morgan. “I enjoyed the topic immensely and became very passionate about historic preservation. The focus of my current project is documenting how marginalized groups, specifically queer populations, claim existing architectural spaces.”
"As a deliverable for the end of this first phase, Morgan developed a floor plan of the space that overlays the existing condition with the memories of the Neptune Club, as interpreted through conversations with the owner and former patrons of the Neptune Club," says Adam.
“Unfortunately, there’s no public documentation for what the interior looked like through history, but we’ve confirmed significant exterior changes from historic photographs,” said Morgan. “The only constant has been the faux brick veneer on the upper floors of the building. In the 1960s, the owner replaced two large front windows with a hexagonal window high off the ground to discourage break-ins. The window is still there, although, sadly, the legendary stained-glass fish panel is not.”
“Working with Carson has been fantastic. He’s been very generous with letting me survey the building as often as I needed, as well as sharing unbelievably valuable context on the space itself,” said Morgan. “I’m very fortunate to have such a supportive partner for this project.”
Adam emphasizes the importance of this work, noting that queer spaces often bear the marks of "ad-hoc interventions, performative reimaginations, and transient spatial practices" that are not always recognized by traditional preservation standards.
"I think it's incumbent on the architect to make a case for the value of queer ephemera," he says.
“While all of the stories I’ve heard were amazing, my favorite was the Neptune’s 1972 Halloween Drag Contest,” said Morgan.
“That’s where Chuckie Betz unveiled his peacock ensemble for the first time. Of course, he also soaked himself in green Rit dye all day, covered himself in peacock feathers, and stomped around in Lucite heels with real goldfish inside them. The best part of the story is that Chuckie didn’t even win – because the host wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be. ‘This is a drag contest, and we’re not quite sure what you’re supposed to be!’
“The prize went to Mama Rae, a popular Black drag queen who co-founded the Miss Gay Wisconsin Pageant. While nobody remembers her outfit or her number that night, everyone vividly remembers Chuckie’s look over 50 years later.”
Looking ahead, Adam hopes to continue this research and find ways to bring this history to a wider audience.
"For a city of its size, no other project I've encountered compares to what the Wisconsin LGBTQ History Project has in place in Milwaukee," he says. "I'm truly blown away by the work of folks on the ground here and couldn't be more thankful to have such an incredible field of seeds to sew."
Note: at the request of the property owner, no photographs of the building interior were taken for this story, as it is not currently operational or licensed as a business.
Explore over a century of hidden histories at the Wisconsin LGBTQ History Project website.
