Making it at The Factory: Revisiting the club that changed Milwaukee forever

Fifty years ago, a new kind of nightclub opened at 158 N. Broadway. The Factory was unlike anything Milwaukee had ever seen before – and it changed nightlife expectations forever. It came out of nowhere like a flaming comet, blazing with tantalizing temptations just out of reach, and influenced music and fashion throughout the 1970s.

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Over the next 14 years, the Factory would host thousands of aspirational Milwaukeeans and visiting celebrities. It was the place to see and be seen – in a way Milwaukee had never felt seen before. The Factory would come and go three times before closing forever on March 29, 1987, but in many ways, its impact on Milwaukee nightlife continues to this day.

And it could only have happened, at the exact moment that it happened.

Location, location, location

Today, it all seems a little impossible.

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Imagine, if you will, a Third Ward that was far more rustic and far more Rust Belt. South Broadway was a long, silent, shadowy stretch that seemed miles away from downtown. While some pioneers, like Isabel Polachek, still called the neighborhood home, most Third Ward residents were evicted by urban renewal 25 years prior. Razing Milwaukee’s “Little Italy” didn’t yield the commercial development the city had banked on. Instead, the Third Ward had become a floating architectural museum of sorts, cut off from downtown by a freeway to nowhere, and abandoned by workers every night.

This wasn’t today’s Historic Third Ward, but a down-on-its-luck Third Ward dangerously close to losing its historic identity forever. “Combat zone” strategies were rezoning America’s downtowns as adult entertainment spaces. The Milwaukee Common Council seriously considered rezoning the Third Ward as a home for tattoo parlors, adult bookstores, massage parlors, porn theaters, strip clubs, and anything else considered “socially unacceptable.”  In Milwaukee, socially unacceptable included gay bars. By 1969, Milwaukee had three dozen operating throughout the city. Since 1971, the River Queen had been raising the roof at the old Cross Keys Hotel (402 N. Water). A year later, the Wreck Room debuted at 266 E. Erie in a vintage saloon that had survived the Great Fire of 1892.

These rebellious taverns opened outside the new “gayborhood” taking shape at 2nd and Pittsburgh, where legacy gay bars (including Castaways, the Seaway Inn, and Nite Beat) evicted by renewal began to gather in the late 1960s. The old Plankinton Strip, Milwaukee’s first gayborhood from 1948-1965, was already forgotten in favor of this emerging gay village. But the new Third Ward bars were incredibly popular – in fact, River Queen put long-time favorite Castaways out of business within a week of opening – and competition was increasingly fierce.

The new generation wanted something new, something exciting, far more than window-less bust-outs could offer with low lighting and a rickety turntable. That wasn’t enough, in this post-Stonewall world, to get people dancing.

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They wanted an experience. And Chuck Cicirello was ready to give them one.

If you want to make it…

Since opening day on Feb. 27, 1926, the Royal Hotel (435 W. Michigan St.) had been a girl down on her luck. Royal Nixdorf aspired to launch a national chain of Royal Hotels, but his dreams faded fast with the Great Depression. Joseph Budnar, formerly manager of the St. Charles Hotel in City Hall Square, took over the Royal Hotel in the mid-1930s. The hotel bar developed a “lavender reputation” for welcoming gay men and women. Ms. Mabel Myers, hotel manager, even bailed out gay men arrested by the ever-present police force. This reputation – and repeat police raids – hovered over the hotel for the next 35 years. In 1969, a new ownership group narrowly outbid the Balistrieri crime family at a Western Bank auction. (Frank Balistrieri had lost the Roosevelt Hotel, home to his Melody Room nightclub, a decade earlier.)

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After a six-figure remodel, the new “Buckskin Hotel” debuted, hoping that a rebrand would drive away the gay ghosts that long haunted the building. The Buckskin failed – and the Royal Hotel was again sold at auction.

It's unclear how Sam Mazur and his wife Michelle came to own the hotel. But, instead of fighting the Royal’s bad reputation, they leaned into it hard. They sought an operator to open a gay bar on the hotel’s ground floor.

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Chuck Cicirello, 28, had lived in Milwaukee his whole life. His father Andrew Cicirello (1905-1949) was a first-generation immigrant from Italy, his mother Grace Mazza (1911-1998) was from a large Italian family that settled in the old Third Ward. His grandmother, Maria Zingale, was related to Jimmy Zingale, known since the early '60s as the “godfather of the gay bars” after opening Castaways at 422 W. McKinley in 1961.  For a decade before gay men could dance together legally in Chicago, they could dance together at Castaways.

Chuck had worked the coat check, bar, and door at Castaways (196 N. Broadway,) and he knew how much money could be had in the gay bar business. Cousin Jimmy was likely an inspiration and a mentor. By fall 1971, Chuck felt he was ready for something bigger, better, and more provocative.

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He became involved in transforming the Royal Hotel Bar into “The Stud Club,” an out-and-proud gay bar that offered drag balls, dance parties, and Milwaukee’s first gay go-go boys. It was extremely popular from day one, remembered as “dramatically different” from the other gay bars of the time.  One of Chuck’s innovations was taking photos of every customer who came in – and embedding them into the flooring under shellac. Thousands and thousands of priceless photos of gay Milwaukee were taken during the Stud’s tenure.

Chuck often used the name “Chuck Balistreri,” recognizing that the surname had power in Milwaukee. Rumors began to swirl that the Mafia was behind the Stud Club – which gave it an air of danger and mystery – especially since it was well known the Balistrieris had wanted the property.

“Maybe it gave him some clout, maybe it gave him some publicity, and maybe it created the illusion he was ‘connected,” said Mafia researcher Gavin Schmitt, “but the fact is, Chuck was not directly related to the Balistrieri crime family.”

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Chuck soon found himself at odds with Michelle over the club’s operation. She was notoriously difficult to work with, and finally, he’d had enough of it.  After six months, Chuck left The Stud Club to open his own bar, The Neptune Club (1100 E. Kane Pl.)  The Neptune opened on May 27, 1972, and was an immediate hit with gay and “hippie-leftie” crowds.

(The Stud Club soon became “Michelle’s,” a seven-day-a-week drag cabaret with an adjoining 24-hour restaurant, until the Royal Hotel closed in September 1973. All of those historic Stud Club photos were sacrificed to the bulldozers soon after.)

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To this day, customers still talk about the Neptune’s Halloween 1972 drag contest. Radical artist Chuckie Betz colored himself green in a bathtub full of Rit dye, glued peacock feathers to his eyelids, and wore wedge platforms with goldfish inside them. Audiences gawked at “drag” that was five decades ahead of its time.

“If this was a costume contest, you would have won, but this … this is a drag contest,” said the judge. Chuckie surrendered the crowd to an elegant black queen to thunderous applause.

By spring, rumors began to swirl that the Neptune was closing. Chuck was out of money, they said. He got evicted for running a gay bar, they said. But nothing could be farther from the truth. Club Neptune’s dancefloor was twice the size of the Stud Club’s – and the space was filled every weekend with heavily mixed crowds. Neighbors had complained about noise; customers had complained about parking. Still, the bar had never been raided – nor had any of the customers been harassed.

Chuck pondered: what if he could find a bigger place, with lots of parking, where people could make as much noise as they wanted? Think of the money.

According to one account, Chuck and business partner Mike Sunt were financed by Bob Antkoski of Milwaukee Sausage Company. Now that they had the money, they just needed to find the place.

In March 1973, he found that place. After 74 years in business, Badger Tobacco was vacating their 66,000 Third Ward factory at 158 N. Broadway. The landmark building, known for its Sen-Sen ghost ad, would be liquidated at auction. The property owner was offering immediate short-term leases for the six-story building. McDonald’s Furniture Clearance Center, a weekend-only operation, briefly rented the upper floors, followed by Howard Industries.

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But the first floor is where the real magic happened.

…. make it at The Factory!

The Factory debuted on March 29, 1973.

This adult funhouse was unlike anything Milwaukee had ever seen before. Unlike the crowded, narrow taverns all over Milwaukee, The Factory was enormous – 2,400 square feet of space – with soaring, 20+ foot ceilings, hypnotic lighting, an enormous island bar that served on four sides, an impressive dancefloor, and a killer sound system playing only the best music. Customers seated at an outer ring of private tables could use the tabletop phone to order drinks from the bar or make flirtatious, anonymous calls to other tables.

 “If you want to MAKE IT, make it … at the Factory,” read the ads. And who could resist?

It was the 1970s – and gay liberation, sexual freedom and disco music collided in an abandoned Third Ward warehouse to change the city forever. No longer just a tavern town, Milwaukee now had a world-class, high-quality New York-style nightclub. Customers’ eyes still light up when you mention its name.

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The Factory was the first gay disco I was ever in, on Halloween night 1973. A guy took me there I’d just met through a personal ad. Upon entering the factory, the assistant foreman and the union steward from my workplace were standing in the foyer. Great shock for me. I moved quickly into the bar to get lost in the crowd. I stepped on the gown of a drag queen who nearly punched me! – Rick

One of the first people I saw inside The Factory was my middle school principal. That was a real revelation back then. – Peter

When I was 16, two amazing drag queens took me under their wing, like two mothers I never had. We drove from La Crosse to spend Saturday night in the big city. I smiled my way into The Factory somehow…and we danced our asses off until 4 a.m. What a night! – Michael

It was the BEST place to go dancing. When I worked at Pieces of Eight, my co-workers used to take me there to dance. So much fun. And they were so accepting of straight people. I always felt safe and comfortable at The Factory. – Teri

During the humid summer months, guys would quickly get rid of their shirts while dancing. One summer night, a cute blond guy dancing in cut-offs decided to drop those as well, dancing around in his birthday suit. The staff came running over to cover him up! – Rick

It was a fun place, vastly different than any other bar in the city at that time. Luckily, it existed at the cusp and wane of the Sexual Revolution – prior to the AIDS scare that crushed sexual liberation completely. The crowd’s libido was exercised by sexy Navy boys on shore leave on summer nights. And ‘oh-what-a-night” those nights were! If someone went home with someone, and everyone was going home with everyone, it was already yesterday’s news. People didn’t stigmatize the situation. We were all having too much fun to care too much. – Andreas

I remember walking in, and feeling the music, and seeing the crowds, and just realizing this is where I belong. I knew immediately. And we danced the entire time we were there! The whole night! Just danced until we were dripping with sweat and ready to collapse. From that day forward, I lived there every weekend. To this day, the smell of Aramis brings me back! – Diane

The Factory was Saturday Night Fever, every weekend, on repeat. It never got old. – Thomas

Everyone was dancing with fans. Everyone was doing poppers on the dance floor. Everyone was exploding with sexual energy. The spinning glass balls above the dancefloor drove people wild. It was a very energizing place. – Greg

Ms. Tony, out there doing those crazy dances. All the New Wavers – Carl and Angie, Curt and Nicky, all glammed out with such amazing hair. Jimmy Wagner slinging drinks. DJ Kimberly Ann in the booth. If we could all just have one more night together. – Jim

It was a playground, where you could always find anyone and anything you desired. – Paul

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The Factory, along with neighbors River Queen and Wreck Room, created a nightlife destination affectionately known as the "Fruit Loop."  Once M&M Club opened in 1976, the “Loop” tightened up between Water, Erie, and Broadway. Three gay bars were now within walking distance of each other, although not everyone would agree it was safe to walk those three blocks alone at night in 1976.

Chuck initially worried that The Factory might be too big. Nobody wants to hang out at an empty club – even if that “empty” club had 100 customers or more at any given time.  Within that first month, talks began about expanding the bar. First, a beer bar was added near the entrance lobby; next, the Marquee Room opened with a second full-service bar, conversation lounge, and game room. Over the Factory’s lifespan, it doubled in size to 5,000 square feet.

“At first, it was out of place,” said Casper Garcia, who worked at the Factory from 1973 to 1982. “People were like, ‘this place is where? And where is THAT?’ When we first opened, we were competing with the Wreck Room for foot traffic from 50 feet away. And those weren’t even the customers we were aiming for. Suddenly, one Saturday, people started pouring in. And every weekend just got busier and busier after that. The main bar needed six bartenders to keep up with the customers. The side bar needed two, maybe three. On a good Saturday night, as many as 2,000 people might pass through those doors. People just came out of nowhere.”

Eddie Schicker, who performed as drag diva Tiger Rose, had bigger plans for the Marquee Room. He approached Chuck about transforming the area into a drag cabaret. Chuck famously said, “If you want a stage, you’re going to have to build it yourself.” And so, that’s exactly what Eddie did. The space, now known as the Loading Dock, became the scene of fabulous drag shows, pageants, fashion shows, movie screenings, fundraisers, comedy acts, concerts, and even big-budget theatrical productions by the Milwaukee Entertainers Club.

The Factory was one of the first places that welcomed drag queens to hang out “dressed,” even if they weren’t performing. Visiting celebrities would always be sure to be seen at the Factory while in town, including Paul Lynde, Milton Berle, and Rusty Warren.

“I came out in summer 1978, and my first bar was This Is It,” said Gregory Faludi, former Factory employee. “And everyone there kept saying, you must go to The Factory, that’s the dance bar, that’s the hot spot. So, I went the very next night – at 8 o’clock – and I couldn’t figure out where everyone was. I was just a dumb kid. I didn’t realize nobody went to discos before 11 p.m.!”

“Flash forward to May 1980, I needed a job. I wasn’t a great bartender, but I’d worked at the Casablanca Disco (1753 S. Kinnickinnic Ave.), and I knew what to do. So, my boyfriend and I went to the Factory, and Chuck was there. I didn’t know him personally, but I went up to him and asked if he was hiring. He told me not to bother him, because he was busy. So, we’re drinking our drinks, and a while later, Chuck comes over and says, ‘our bartender no-showed, get behind the bar.’  That’s how I got the job that lasted me almost three years.”

Some say The Factory wasn’t doing true disco, others say that The Factory was Milwaukee’s first taste of the disco phenomenon. It wasn’t quite Studio 54, but it tried hard to be something special. One thing’s for clear: when you talk to former visitors, they always remember that dance floor. Lit from below by flashing colored lights, the raised transparent plastic dancefloor was encircled by stadium-seating bleachers for maximum cruising.

“Disco changed everything about nightlife,” said George Prentice, later owner of La Cage. “When The Factory first opened, there was no DJ booth. There was a jukebox – like every other bar in town – where every popular song would get played 50 times a night.  Jukeboxes were so much easier to manage and so much more profitable. But when disco hit, people wanted DJs spinning and mixing records live. It was a major turning point in nightlife.”

“We opened the Circus (219 S. 2nd St.) as a true disco,” said George. “Chuck followed us immediately. It didn’t hurt us; it helped us in a number of ways because we were more upscale. When you walked into Circus, you knew immediately you were in an upscale place. The Factory’s charm was that it was rough around the edges. It was also four times the size of Circus. They were two different clubs for two different experiences.”

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To this day, some songs bring fans back to that fabled original Factory dancefloor. “Pop Music” by M. “Le Freak” by Chic. “San Francisco” and “Village People” by The Village People. “The Letter” by Queen Samantha. “Don’t Leave Me This Way” by Thelma Houston. “I’m Your Boogie Man” by K.C. and the Sunshine Band. “Yes, Sir I Can Boogie” by Baccara. “Souvenirs” by Voyage. “Lady Bump” by Penny MacLean. “Stars,” “Band of Gold,” and “You Make Me Feel” by Sylvester. “Funkytown” by Lipps Inc. “Eagle” by Dennis Parker. “Tragedy” by the Bee Gees. “Last Dance,” “MacArthur Park” and “Sunset People” by Donna Summer.

For reasons unknown, The Factory became The Inferno in September 1975. Advertising shifted from industrial themes to provocative fallen angels. Now hovering above the dancefloor was a large demonic head, with eyes flashing red and mouth blowing smoke onto the hazy decadence below. While nobody was quite sure if the head was a devil or a dragon, one thing’s for sure: the smoke effect rarely worked like it was supposed to. Employees remember using steam, a fog machine, dry ice, and even fire extinguisher foam to activate the “smoke” on command.

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“I always felt bad for all those people who showed up in designer outfits,” said Greg. “People dressed to impress, and those outfits were expensive. If you didn’t leave covered in cigarette burns from the crowded dancefloor, you left reeking of cigarette smoke that would never come out. I’d want to burn my clothes after a packed night at The Factory.”

The Inferno was, truly, as “Devilishly Divine” as the matchbooks said. But it was too good to last.

In August 1976, GLIB Guide offered a tempting review: “Boogie down with the snorting dragon and nightly gang. Weekends offer a second dance floor.”  But the dragon wasn’t around much longer, because the next issue mentions “The dragon is gone…the look is now mirrors and lots of colored lights.”

Within a few months, even The Inferno name was gone. The bar changed its name to “On Broadway” in mid-1977 before changing back to The Factory in January 1978. (Despite all these name changes, which may or may not have been related to licensing issues, nobody ever called it anything but The Factory.)

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The Factory was also one of the first bars to attract curious straight couples, who came for the music and stayed for the vibe. Being seen at The Factory was brave and daring. Straight discos like Park Avenue would later add “gay nights” one night per week to invite crossover crowds. This was a controversial move:  for generations, straight bar owners had taken advantage of gay men with no place else to go. Now, gay men were choosing to give their money to straight bars even though gay-owned and operated businesses existed. This was an early indication that the future of nightlife would be about experience, value, and status, not necessarily community loyalty – a point that millennials and Generation Y have loudly made in the 21st century.

“Whenever I went out with friends, the girls would always want to go dancing,” said Jim Lonergan. “One night they demanded to go to Circus, and hey, who was I to resist? We’re sitting in the downstairs bar when a cocktail waiter said, ‘hi Jimmy’ and gave me a kiss. The girls were speechless! Little did they know I’d been exploring the gay bars for a while by then. I was aware of The Factory, because my brother Tim worked there, but I hadn’t been there yet myself.”

“One night, I headed down there alone,” said Jim. “The Factory wasn’t hard to find – it was the only building with any signs of life around it. I was immediately impressed by this cool space and went into the back bar to meet my brother. I was in decent shape, working in the metal forge industry, and lifting weights. I was pretty butch, looking back. Chuck took one look at me and skeptically said, ‘this is your brother?’ to Tim. Then he asked me, with that same skeptical tone, ‘and you like guys?’  I said yeah. He couldn’t believe it! I was hired as a doorman on the spot.”

At the height of gay liberation, The Factory debuted a curious new addition. The Broadway Health Club, a private men’s bathhouse above the club, opened on Feb. 7, 1978. The club offered 43 rooms, 160 lockers, workout rooms, steam rooms, a snack lounge and much, much more for just $5 a year. Memberships, sold at The Factory, instilled a sense of safety, privacy, and anonymity. These were essentials for gay men in 1978, when they could still be fired from jobs, denied housing, and arrested for homosexual behavior (even in their own homes.)   

Unfortunately, the Broadway Health Club soon became much more trouble than it was worth.

Police Chief Breier vs. The Factory

In May 1978, the Milwaukee Police Department began raiding the Broadway Health Club with brute force.

After a month-long sting operation, officers invaded the private club on a busy Saturday night. Officers broke down doors, took customers outdoors (many wearing only towels,) forced them to stand on the sidewalk, and ridiculed them until sunrise. Names and addresses of the arrested were published in local papers to humiliate them.

“Chuck had taken these two guys on a tour of the club, and even given them a free membership,” said Casper Garcia. “We didn’t like them from the start. You could tell they weren’t the kind of people who went to a bathhouse. They were too shy, too unfriendly, too buttoned up. They weren’t interested in hooking up with anyone. Come on, that’s not how you act in a bathhouse!  We later found out they were the undercover cops.”

“Two weeks later, I was working upstairs, and I hear a commotion downstairs. There were 15 cops standing in the hallway leading to the Health Club. I heard the officer tell the doorman, ‘I want you to open that door, we are coming in.’ and I bolted. I ran through the upstairs halls yelling ‘we’re getting raided, we’re getting raided, the cops are here, the cops are here.’  And I saw the two undercover cops upstairs, and they were not alarmed at all.”

“They rounded up as many people as they could, but so did I. I took about a dozen people upstairs to the third floor and locked them in. I took a bunch of other people down to the basement.  I’m running all over this whole area, yelling raid, raid, raid. I knew that anyone who got busted would lose their jobs, their families, their lives. They might even be on TV. I had to help them.” “They took everyone outside, all these naked men, and lined them up against the wall like Nazi Germany,” said Casper. “There was a female officer present and she’s walking back and forth laughing at all these exposed men.  It was so inhumane.”

Over the next nine months, 36 men would be arrested for sexual perversion, but the City Attorney later dropped all charges. Three council members criticized the raids as an ineffective use of police labor. Alyn Hess, leader of Gay People’s Union, condemned the police for intruding on sexual privacy. GPU picketed downtown to protest Police Chief Harold Breier’s homophobic policies and pursued legal action against the city.

The Broadway Health Club was shut down so many times, it’s unclear how many nights it was actually open for business. When the 1979 Gay World Series came to Milwaukee, Chuck offered up the 43 rooms as a makeshift hotel for visiting teams. (He later bought a gigantic GMC motor home to transport The Factory softball team around the country.)

Truth be told, The Factory’s restrooms had a bit of a sordid reputation. Knowing the police were watching, Chuck ordered his bouncers to crack down on any unsavory antics.

“Chuck would say, ‘make sure the drag queens aren’t messing around in the bathroom,’ and we’d be like, alright, sure.  And one time I walked into the women’s bathroom to find a dozen women applying lipstick, eyeliner and eyeshadow at the mirror, while full-fledged sex was happening on the sink top in front of them. It didn’t even interrupt their conversations. Because that’s just how The Factory was – by the end of a good night, you’d seen it all,” said Jim.

Civic debates about Breier’s harassment raged for years. Deputy City Attorney David Felger cited Milwaukee’s expectation of privacy, saying “If consenting adults go to a private room of any kind …. they shouldn’t be bothered by law enforcement.” Alderman Kevin O’Connor, whose district included all three of the city’s bathhouses, said “these are quiet, private clubs … I don’t think we should make moral judgements about people’s preferences, as long as it is consenting and private.”  

The controversy introduced many Milwaukeeans to the idea of a gay bathhouse for the first time. However, gay baths had been operating in Milwaukee for decades. Gay People’s Union demanded to know: why were they only being raided now – and why with such force? Inspector Leroy Jahnke, head of the vice squad, claimed they were acting on complaints of child pornography and sexual activity with minors. No evidence, much less proof of the complaints, was ever presented.

After three years of near-nonstop police harassment, inconsistent opening hours, and profit-crushing negative publicity, Chuck closed the Broadway Health Club in 1981. For a while, he maintained an apartment on the second floor, but the bath space was shuttered. Police raids continued at Club Baths Milwaukee (702 W Wisconsin Ave.) until Wisconsin’s Consenting Adults Law rendered bathhouse surveillance illegal in 1983.

Little did Chuck know how near the end was.

Violence comes to The Factory

Throughout the spree of bathhouse raids, two violent crimes took a toll on The Factory’s reputation.

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On April 27, 1979, popular doorman James "Tiny" Kallas left The Factory with two younger men. He was never seen alive again. On May 8, a 15-year-old boy found Tiny's body stuffed under a manhole at 2713 W. Brown St. His car, $10,000 in jewelry, and $2,000 in cash were missing.

This was especially shocking. Tiny was larger than life: how could two young men overtake a man rumored to weigh over 300 pounds? Prosecutors thought they had an open-and-shut case against the so-called "hustlers," until a medical examiner dealt a wild card. Although Tiny had been missing for 11 days, he had only been dead 2 days when found. Were the hustlers off the hook? If so, who killed Tiny? Vicious rumors swirled, many of which connected Tiny to the Balistrieri crime family – despite no known relationship or connection.

To avoid jury trials, one of the hustlers pleaded guilty to "murder by reckless conduct" (?) and the other pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of "theft."  But there was no real justice for Tiny, and never any real explanation of why or how he died. Many speculated the hustlers were, in fact, innocent, but bribed into plea bargains to expunge more serious crimes. The murder investigation was riddled with homophobic comments, nonsensical contradictions, and unanswered questions.

Saddest of all, Tiny was scheduled to reopen the long-closed River Queen (402 N. Water St.) as "Waterfront Disco."  If only he lived to see this through, the old tavern wouldn't have sat empty, abandoned, and prone to suspicious fires. In November 1979, the 127-year-old Cross Keys building was severely damaged in a three-alarm fire. In May 1980, as his killers were pleading their case, Tiny's never-opened Waterfront Disco was torn down for surface parking. Twenty-six years later, the Milwaukee Public Market was built on its long-empty footprint.

Sadly, Tiny wasn’t the only Factory bouncer lost to violence.

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On Christmas Night, 1980, at 1:40 a.m., bouncer Dennis Wesela was shot and killed by John Pegelow inside the bar. After arguing about a coat check fee, the extremely intoxicated Pegelow ordered an employee to return his money, or he’d blow his head off. He left the bar only to return 20 minutes later with a .357 caliber Magnum handgun. He blew a gigantic hole into the wall opposite the coat check, ordering everyone to get down on the floor. The bar was filled with over 400 customers, and many began fleeing out the back door.

“When all these people came stampeding through the middle bar, we thought the sketchy dance floor lights had finally caught on fire,” said Jim Lonergan. “On a busy night, it was faster to run around the outside of the bar than trying to move through the interior. So, imagine trying to get through this mob to see what was going on. I remember Tim saying, ‘there was a gunshot in the bar,’ and so we all grabbed glassware – it was all we had to defend ourselves. By the time we got to the front, it was over.”

Wesela tried to reason with the shooter, telling him ‘No one has been hurt yet, please just leave and nobody will say a thing.’  Pegelow began kicking Wesela in his legs, hands, and ribs, ordering him to get on the floor. Kneeling, Wesela made one last attempt to talk sense into the gunman. In response, Pegelow ordered Wesela to keep his head down. When he raised it up to see what was happening, Pegelow shot him from five feet. The shooter fled the bar on foot and threw the weapon into a Water Street snowbank. He was captured by police at 12th and North two hours later.

“No one knew what Pegelow would do,” said Bill Meunier, who was at the bar that night. “But Dennis, a former police officer and decorated combat veteran, knew that the longer he delayed Pegelow, the more people could escape.”

“Most people had already evacuated, but the staff was standing around in shock,” said Jim. “Chuckie said ‘make sure there are no underage people in here.’ The police showed up and the investigation began. The next night, I was asked to work the front door. I remember the sheriff showing up and handing me a can of mace for self-defense. We’d never had anything like this happen, anywhere. We’d never once thought we’d need to defend ourselves. The scary thing is, sometimes I think, how much worse it could have been.”

Newspaper reports straightwashed the story and sympathized with Pegelow. He was presented as a good old American boy who found himself in a club that “catered to homosexual customers” and “became disorderly.”  Throughout the subsequent trial, the defense for first-degree murder seemed to be “gay panic.”  The jury disagreed that Pegelow meant to kill Wesela and reduced the charge to second-degree murder. In July 1981, Pegelow was sentenced to only 15 years in prison, which even the sentencing justice questioned.

“There was no question this was first degree murder,” said Meunier. “Pegelow threatened to kill people, went out to his car, got a gun, and came back shooting.”

“The shooting was a very vicious crime…I think the jury gave him a break,” said Circuit Court Judge Marvin C. Holz. “This is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow of using drugs.” The community agreed, speculating that the jury favored the assailant because the victim was gay.

“At his funeral mass, the priest commented that Dennis must have been a good man because of the large number of people in the pews,” said Meunier. “Afterwards, I told the priest we were all there because Dennis saved our lives. He was shocked. To this day, Dennis Wesela hasn’t been recognized for his heroism. But I remember what he did that night, and I always will.”

Every end has a start

The crowds came back sooner than anyone expected, spending more money than ever before. “Limo parties,” a new phenomenon inspired by nighttime soaps, always included a stop at The Factory.

On March 22, 1981, Gay People’s Union celebrated the Factory’s eighth anniversary with a “Chuck Roast” fundraiser hosted by Tiger Rose, Crazy Lenny, and Gloria P. Hole as Roseann Roseannadanna. The movers and shakers of the gay community came out in droves, and the event was mentioned in local newspapers.

The Factory was still going strong in April 1982, when The Milwaukee Journal named it the “IN Spot” with this fabulous review:

    To dance at The Factory is to experience trance on a plane, outside the normal dimension, where music and light meet and fuse into glowing, pulsating ether. Colors collide with each other, merging into colors yet unnamed. The combination of a sophisticated lighting system with tasteful sets of disco and new wave inspires sensations that transcend Milwaukee. Conversation is painful and best avoided. Nonverbal communication is used by necessity as well as by choice. The Factory has a sense of uniqueness. It is a place apart from the outside world.

“We’d have people in tuxes escaping weddings, guys in T-shirts and ripped jeans getting off second shift jobs, new wavers, punk kids with Mohawks, college kids in sweaters, moms out on the prowl, first dates, guys cruising for a hook-up, all together, all having a good time,” said Jim. “Chuck loved that DJ Kimberly Ann rotated musical styles. While one group hit the dancefloor, another group left the floor to get drinks. The constant rotation kept people drinking and dancing continuously. It worked!”

But times were changing fast. It was Reagan’s Morning in America, disco was dead, and the thrill of sexual abandon was fleeting. Once seen as a groundbreaking experience, the Factory now just felt quaint and old-fashioned. There were more dance clubs than ever in Milwaukee, each raising the bar one step higher than the last with hot DJs, dancers, and vibes. Park Avenue. The Red Baron. Club 219. Struggling for years to stay afloat, Chuck Cicirello finally lost the lease in fall 1982. He vowed to reopen at a new address soon.

Sadly, The Factory and all its contents were auctioned off by the same auctioneer, David S. Gronik & Company, who had liquidated the Badger Tobacco Company 10 years earlier. A “complete discotheque” was sold piece-by-piece on November 30, 1982. Everything, from floor to ceiling, was sold – including the famous red velvet cabaret curtains.

It seemed The Factory was gone forever. It wasn’t – until it was.

X

Within two weeks of the auction, The Factory was back. On Dec. 16, 1982, an elite group of guests was invited to 130 E. Juneau Ave. for the grand opening of Factory II.  The venue had previously housed Kisses, a gay disco that opened at 6 a.m. After a considerable investment of time and money, the space was transformed into a totally new experience.  The Factory was now a bi-level experience, with the bar and dance floor on separate floors with an open, L-shaped stairway between them. Customers wanted their MTV, so the Factory II was outfitted with a innovative sound and light system. DJ Kimberly Ann and staff had lobbied long and hard for video, but Chuckie initially didn’t want to spend the money.

“One day, I went into the bar and found that Chuck had installed $10,000 in video equipment,” said Jim Lonergan. “A co-worker teased me, ‘so Jim, however did you talk him into it?”

“I remember the day I hunted for hours and hours to find the Michael Jackson ‘Thriller’ video,” said Jim. “When it played on the big screen that night, and on smaller screens around the bar, people just stopped talking, stopped dancing, and stared. No one moved, no one spoke.  I’d never seen anything like it. That was the day that Chuck admitted we were right all along.”  Jim also remembers “Don’t You Want Me” by Human League being such a popular singalong, they’d turn off the volume and let the crowds sing the chorus.

While some liked the newer, cozier Factory II, it certainly never attracted the crowds of its predecessor. Only the New Wave crowds followed them to Juneau Avenue. Customers complained the space was too crowded to navigate on busy nights, and the low ceilings contributed to an intense sense of claustrophobia. Compared to the stark, raw, cavernous feel of The Factory, the second location felt more stylish and refined. Simply put, it didn’t feel like a factory – it didn’t even feel like a bar.

No longer part of the “Fruit Loop,” the Factory II felt distant and detached from other popular gay bars. Chuck had taken a big gamble moving downtown, and in less than two years, his luck ran out. Rumors of financial trouble plagued the bar’s entire existence. Finally, Chuck was forced to close on Sept. 18, 1984.

In October 1984, Ron Geiman wrote in InStep Magazine:

    We salute the passing of an era – over 11 years of The Factory and the Factory II.  The Factory II never was as popular as the much cherished “Old Factory,” but rumors that started in May helped in its demise. The staff has been absorbed into other bars, but Chuck is unsure of what the future holds for him. Once again, rumors persist.

Chuck may have been down, but he wasn’t out. The Lost & Found, Wisconsin’s first women’s disco and membership club at 618 N. 27th Street, had just lost its liquor license. Chuck took a chance at opening Danceteria, “Milwaukee’s first private late night juice club,” an alcohol-free space not bound by state-mandated hours of operation. Whereas bars had to close at 2 a.m., a private all-ages club could stay open until 5 a.m. or even 6 a.m. “Party Til Dawn!” screamed the ads.

While some saw a money pit, Chuck saw dollar signs. Wisconsin’s drinking age had already increased to 19, and it was only a matter of time before it was raised to the national standard of 21. A whole new class of customers, legally adults but still not legal drinkers, were going to need places to go. Danceteria could be that place. When it opened on March 8, 1985, it was the nightlife revolution Milwaukee was waiting for.

X

There was just one problem: an old city ordinance, dating back to the post-Prohibition “B Girl” days, forbid dancing after midnight in any venue without a liquor or cabaret license. Slapped with violations, Chuck realized his brilliant business deal was shot. He was forced to apply for a liquor license, despite originally not planning to serve liquor to anyone. Ads now promised that the bar was “reopening soon – with alcohol!” By July, Danceteria was back in business, without the promise of partying until dawn.

If the neighborhood had been challenging for Lost & Found, it was even more challenging for Danceteria. Despite free off-street parking and heavy security, many customers didn’t feel safe venturing to 27th and Michigan. Danceteria lasted until June 1987 before closing forever. The building was razed in the 1990s.

Over the next two years, those pesky rumors continued to swirl that The Factory would be reborn. Skeptics scoffed: The Factory was a relic of the disco years, of the early 80s. How could Chuck pull it off when he had his hands full with Danceteria? How could anyone recreate that Factory magic? Could lightning strike not just twice, but three times? Why would he even try?

X

But that’s exactly what happened.

On Nov. 4, 1986, the Factory III opened at 511 N Broadway, beneath the extremely popular Club Papagaio (1981-1987) and behind Park Avenue (1978-1990.) Once again, the Factory was part of a nightlife loop, and for a while it worked for them. It was truly the return of the “Big Bar,” with over 6,000 square feet, soaring ceilings, wide open spaces, amazing light shows, and an enormous dancefloor. The Factory III promised visiting drag shows from the Baton Show Lounge, exotic male dancers from Menergy, and live concerts. When Papagaio closed in fall 1986, Club New York continued their “Gay Night” tradition – which made 511/515 the hottest address in town every Wednesday.

Chuck’s attempt to restore the Factory magic was noble. Crowds were curious – at first – especially those who had been missing the warehouse vibes of the original Factory. While Wednesday night drag shows were incredibly popular, business was bleak on the other weeknights, and eventually the weekends as well. While the first Factory had been powered by euphoria and escapism, the Factory III was powered entirely by nostalgia.

Chuck underestimated the cultural impact of the AIDS crisis on nightlife. With so many friends sick and/or dying, fewer and fewer people were partying as hard as they did in the 1970s.  He also underestimated the impact of ‘80s urban renewal on downtown nightlife.  Broadway and Clybourn, long a dead-end corner, was now prime real estate – which increased the demand for parking and elevated rental prices. And he underestimated the competition:  La Cage was now the reigning dance club in the city, followed by the nearby Club 219. If people were going out on weekends, they weren’t heading to The Factory III.

"The final Factory was only four blocks away from the original," said a History Project contributor, "but it felt 400 miles away from the Factory I remembered. Looking back, it wasn’t just the distance in space, but in time. It was only four years between the first one closing and the third one opening, but so much happened in those four years."

To make matters worse, the property at 511/515 N. Broadway was in rougher shape than anyone expected. Built in 1867, the long-time home of Acme Radio Supply Corporation had been added to the National Register of Historic Places in September 1986. While the outside of the four-story brick building seemed safe, the interiors were a catastrophe waiting to happen. Customers remember the ceilings bowing on busy nights, beneath the weight of the upstairs dance floor, and many fully expected that second floor to collapse. (The building was added to the East Towne Commercial Historic District in January 1989.)

Inspired by soaring costs per foot, the owners of 511/515 N. Broadway decided to sell in spring 1987. They announced that Club New York would be relocating to the ground floor of the building, which left The Factory III homeless. Once again, the writing was on the wall. After only six months in business, the Factory III closed on March 29, 1987 – exactly 14 years after the original location opened four months south.  And, as it turned out, Club New York closed only four months later.

On April 9, 1987, InStep Magazine commented:

The “TeleQueen Network” was very active last week in Milwaukee about The Factory closing. Yes, dear reader, if you’re one of the few who don’t know yet – Sunday, March 29 was their last night, though no fault of their own. They’d been having some problems because of the excessive overhead, and too few customers on weeknights. But that isn’t what caused it to close. According to Chuck, the building is for sale. The owners thought Club New York would be “more conducive” to their type of business.

When I asked Chuck if the future held anything, he said “a legendary name never dies.”

Quietly, reluctantly, sadly, The Factory relinquished its battered crown as the king of nightlife.

Fifty years later

In October 1985, the former Factory II at 130 E. Juneau Ave. became the new home of Village Church. For 10 years, they’d tried to find a new downtown home, going as far as attempting to buy the Knickerbocker Hotel and building a new structure above the Juneau Village parking structure. Juneau Avenue was an ironic homecoming for Village Church. They’d bid on the same building in 1982 – only to be outbid by investors who rented to Factory II. Throughout 1985, they spent half a million dollars renovating the former disco into their new home.

Meanwhile, the Historic Third Ward was emerging from its chrysalis. In February 1986, the Historic Third Ward Association and Theater X formed a consortium to purchase the original Factory building at 158 N. Broadway for $330,000, now called the Broadway Theater Center.

Over the next five years, they spent $2 million to convert the old tobacco warehouse into a 99-seat theater and 80-seat cabaret bar. Today, the Factory’s main bar and dance floor is now the performance space for the Skylight Theater, while the former Beer Bar and Game Room is now the reception area. A new addition replaced the space formerly occupied by the Loading Dock. This tremendous neighborhood investment was just one of many that transformed the Historic Third Ward from a sleepy warehouse district to a thriving urban destination over the next four decades.

As for the Factory III building? 511/515 N. Broadway was razed soon after the club closed, leaving an enormous surface parking lot in its wake. Since 2020, it’s been the site of the 11-story Huron Building, home of Husch Blackwell, J. Jeffers & Co Real Estate, and Tupelo Honey restaurant.

Chuck Cicirello took over Club 219 in the mid-1990s and managed the business until its abrupt closing in October 2005. The bar was in the middle of a long, intensive, and expensive makeover when the doors shockingly closed forever. This was especially surprising as the Old Fifth Ward was poised for a real estate renaissance. Facing health issues and financial challenges, Chuck had no choice but to go out with a whimper, not a bang. In its final moments, Club 219 was unrecognizable: wiring hanging from ceilings, exposed insulation, broken faucets, HVAC system out of order.  We can only imagine what might have been if the remodel had not collapsed under its own costs.  (The Club 219 storefront remained vacant for nearly 15 years, before Rec Room Craft Company opened in 2019, later replaced by Wall Street Stock Bar in 2021.)

It was rumored, for years afterward, that Chuck was scouting for a location to open a new bar. Unfortunately, these were only rumors.

Chuck Cicirello died on Feb. 1, 2011, at age 67. He left behind a widow, two sons, and two grandchildren, as well as a chosen family of customers, colleagues, and friends. It was truly the end of an era. Even today, his memory looms large over all who knew him.

I knew Chuck since 1969. He was a great man. We competed throughout the '70s and '80s with no rancor. We had a great friendship and we always got along. I lovingly called him the most Polish Italian I’d ever met in my life. – George Prentice

The Factory was the first gay bar I ever went to, and I played on the Factory softball team, with Chuck as our coach. He was a great guy who looked out for other people. – Tim Carpenter.

He was always nice to me at his house and at the bar. I remember him always buying us dinner after bar close. He was always kind and funny, but he could get serious extremely fast, and I’m glad I was never his target when he was pissed. He believed in giving people second chances. – Steve

Chuck embraced open signs of affection. He was loved with hugs and kisses from family, friends, and anyone he did business with. It was one of his trademarks. – Paul

He was a dedicated family man running two households. He was proud of his two sons and his grandchildren. He liked me because I was Italian, and he was always nice to me, but I saw that Italian temper more than once. Yes, he could be a bastard – but he was always a lovable bastard! – Jim

Today, there aren’t many places left to dance in Milwaukee, and even less places to be seen.   

Not like people used to be seen at The Factory.