THE ECHOLETTES, "MY BABY LOVES ME" C/W "MY BEAU JOE," IMPERIAL 5954 (REL. 6/1963)

From the mainstream sounds of yesterday’s single, we visit a deep crevice of the twilight zone—a place where prudish, stoic nostalgia co-exists with a plea of desperate hope for the love of another. These came from the heart and soul of Barbara Ann Fairman; her lone recording reaches across the abyss of decades. She may be from New Orleans—a common connection to Imperial Records, where her group The Echolettes made this one single; if so, she passed on in 1992.  Both songs were published by Travis Music, an arm of Imperial Records, and were copyrighted in January and May of 1963.

We can surmise that The Echolettes’ record was made that May; issued a month later, it came and went in a blink. There is so much unusual about this record that it, unlike all the ordinary, run-of-mill releases around it, speaks with a singular voice beyond commercial norms. I’m ever grateful that such records were made and released; one Echolettes atones for 1,000 Pat Boones.

Ms. Fairman is the lead singer, and her prim, precise diction is far away from the slurred slangy tone of the Black girl-group sound. Her voice speaks of a desire for dignity, to be regarded as a serious performer and to be heard without judgment.

"My Baby Loves Me" has a stern, almost military backdrop, with intense stop-and-start rhythm and crisp percussion, Fairman enunciates each syllable as though she sings a classical art song.

She allows her voice some passion, but her approach is eccentric and forceful. She gives certain phrases a percussive vocal push. Her fellow Echolettes follow this path; they are well-rehearsed. Their vibrato matches—unusual for young performers.

At 1:20, the four voices break into wordless harmony. The voicings are eerie and, against the sustained minor chord, downright chilling. For a song that means to exude happiness, the music suggests suffering, isolation, hardship. That 26-second passage speaks volumes.

At record’s end, the group repeats this to the fade-out, which leaves the listener stunned and with a sense of having been possessed by something: the ghost of a long-gone woman’s inner feelings, perhaps. Like their harmonic break, it’s beyond words.

Cash Box reviewed Imperial Records' releases with devotion; their summation of this record avoids notice of its eccentricities--which are the core of The Echolettes' style.

On the flip, “My Beau Joe” begins with a solemn vow: “I believe in loyalty, faith, hope and charity.” We’re transported to the Victorian era of popular music with such a statement. Despite its mention of the senior prom, this song seems to come from a century-plus before its creation.

The horns on this side sound like New Orleans musicians to me. The record’s coda contains an avant-garde surprise: the four women, who have sung in precise unison, break into harmony; their major-seventh chord has something out of whack and the sound is a dissonant blossom that clashes against the backup band. It was only a B-side, so no second take was attempted; perhaps Ms. Fairman wanted it that way.

It’s a curious song: so out of step with 1963 vernacular music and so vulnerable in how its narrator expresses their inner feelings. The journalistic Five Ws apply to this song and its performance; I’m glad no one thought to correct its off-kilter sound.

These are the only known songs of Barbara Ann Fairman. She went back to her life and, if I’ve correctly IDed her as a New Orleans resident, she lived out the next 29 years of her life there without known incident. The record she and her unknown groupmates left behind is beyond haunting. There’s an interesting, intelligent person behind these songs and vocals. I would have liked to know her.

Tomorrow: Billy and Lillie get low-down and intense on a wild, soulful 1963 deck from ABC-Paramount. A little-known gem from this duo’s catalog.