| The show
or bill, as it was also
sometimes called, was
divided into two halves
and separated by an
interval. The interval
was the time when the bar
was open for those in
need of alcoholic drinks,
while ice cream and
orange drinks were on
sale in the auditorium.
The interval was an
interesting time, but
more about that a little
later. In
the good ole days,
which were supposedly in
Edwardian times, which
was when Music Hall
was at its height of
popularity, a Master
of Ceremonies would
oversee the
evening’s
frivolities and introduce
each act. The Master
was a gentleman, who sat
at a small table to the
side of the stage, and he
was responsible for
entertaining the audience
between acts and for
their introduction. He
would bring the audience
to quiet by calling for
it, but mainly by his
banging of a gavel on the
table in front of him.
Most patrons would come
to order, but there
would be a few, generally
in The Gods, who
would think themselves
his intellectual equal
and attempt to heckle
him. The Master
would certainly be
someone of quick wit
and would flavour his
responses to these jokers
with a certain acidity
that would silence them
in their tracks and cause
them to hide beneath
their seats with
embarrassment. The
audience would jeer at
them and howl loudly with
pleasure as the Master
took a bow. A Master
with wit and charm
was both a crowd pleaser
and someone to help fill
the theatre. The audience
appreciated someone who
could entertain them with
clever repartee and who
possessed the ability to piece
together ingenious and
long-forgotten words as
he introduced each act.
The Master would
be greeted with roars of
laughter and thunderous
applause as he
demonstrated his
eloquence to the
audience. Patrons would
often come to the Music
Hall with the
specific intention of
seeing and being
entertained by the Master
and oftentimes the
various acts would become
of secondary importance.
Oer the
years, the art of the
Musical Hall Masters
of Ceremonies
declined and their
numbers shrank. And sadly
with our rush into a more
modern world, these
orators passed into
oblivion and so their art
was lost. No host of The
Tonight Show could
ever match them. With
their loss, the Masters
were replaced by small
monitors placed
strategically at the
sides of the stage for
all to see and which
served to announce the
next act to appear on
stage. The monitors
displayed in little red
circular button-lights
the number that an act
had been assigned in the
programme. Naturally,
much charm and
entertainment were lost
with the demise of the Master
of Ceremonies, and I
for one, regret not ever
being a part of that age
when they thrived.
Click
on a picture to see
a clip from the programme
Despite
not being a part of the
era of the Master of
Ceremonies, I was
lucky enough to have a taste
of their art thanks to
the BBC programme The
Good Old Days.
The bygone era of Music
Hall would be
periodically recreated at
the City Variety Leeds.
During this presentation,
various acts would
recreate old-style
entertainment for your
delight, as the Master
would say. One such act
would always be a female
singer who would be
dressed in an exaggerated
gown together with a
large hat ordained with
masses of multi-coloured
ostrich feathers. She
would lead the audience,
also dressed in period
costume, in a singalong
consisting of a number of
Edwardian and Victorian
tunes. Everyone would
join in and sing heartily
with her and have a great
time in doing so. The
evening’s events
would be overseen with
much verve and gusto by
the brilliantly talented Leonard
Sachs
(right in the collage
above) who would amuse
both audience and
television viewers alike
with his wit and charm
and he would astound us
in true vintage style
with his portrayal of the
production’s Master
of Ceremonies.
The first
act of all Music Hall
presentations would
traditionally be a dance
routine that would be
performed by a bevy of
glamorous, scantily clad girls,
women, ladies or
whatever. Their
revealing sequin-studded
costumes would most often
be topped off with
exaggerated feather
headdresses made most
likely of fake ostrich
plumes. It had been
normal for all musical
theatre to begin in this
manner right up until the
late 1940s until the
musical play Oklahoma!
was presented and
revolutionized the genre.
Oklahoma! was the
first real musical
that I ever saw performed
on the stage. I remember
being taken as a special
treat to see the original
production at the Stoll
Theatre in Kingsway
in London just before it
closed and being most
disappointed to find that
as the curtain rose to
reveal that little farm
in Kansas. I remember
also being left most
disappointed since there
were no dancing girls in
sight. I had already
developed a taste for
headdresses made of
feathers. In their
absence were three
characters who, good
though they were, sadly
lacked that initial
impact that a chorus of
sequin-ordained
feather-headed beauties
were guaranteed to bring
someone raised on Music
Hall.
Even as a
child, I had strong views
on just about any subject
that interested me. And
how a show should begin
was something that
definitely interested me
and on which I had a
definite opinion. My
preference was that
immediately following the
band’s medley, the
musicians should go
immediately into the introduction
to the first act with no
pause for the band to
receive applause.
Although I appreciated
that the band and the
leader deserved
recognition for their
part in helping make the
evening memorable, I was
of a mind that any
ovation should be saved
and given to them and the
cast once the show was
over and not before. I
felt that stopping to
applaud following their
medley only served to
interfere with the continuity
of the show. I also felt
that the applause given
to the first act would be
more thunderous
if, as the curtain was
allowed to suddenly open,
we, the audience, were
allowed our first glimpse
of that bevy of beautiful
girls in posed
positions with immoveable
smiles on their faces who
were standing patiently
and waiting to entertain
us.
Regardless
of whatever the
circumstances that
preceded, once the
curtain opened, the
scantily clad dancers,
along with their smiles,
would come to life and
throw themselves into
their dance and try their
best to make us believe
that they were happy to
be there and ready,
willing and able to
entertain and bring us
joy. The dancers would
burst into a series of
high-kicks, leaps, taps,
and bows as they smiled
their way through their
meticulous routine while
maintaining their steps
in time with the music
and their smiles intact
for some three minutes or
so. Their efforts were
greatly appreciated by me
as well as the rest of
the audience.
 Naturally,
I had an opinion on the
costumes worn by the
dancers and, as I said
earlier, I liked the
dancers to wear a costume
that glittered
along with some form of
headdress bedecked with feathers.
Over the years, I have
seen many dance troupes
in many countries and I
have enjoyed them all
from The
John Tiller Girls
to The
Bluebell Girls
in Paris and to the Radio
City Rockets. There
is something quite
spectacular about a line
of chorus girls
performing high-legged
kicks in unison along
with intricate formation
steps while wearing
sparkly costumes topped
off with feathered
headdresses of long
ostrich plumes, all-be-them
fake.
Once the
chorus girls finished
their prance about the
stage, they would bow
either in unison or offer
it in the form of a wave,
which I much preferred,
and then high-kick
their way off stage. The
girl at the end of the
line, just before
disappearing behind the fly,
would turn and offer the
audience either a final
smile or else give one
last defiant kick, turn
before turning her back
to us and give us a
provocative wiggle
of her behind and then be
gone. The audience en
masse would be
cheering at this point.
Even at my young age, I
definitely preferred the
exit involving the final
defiant kick and the
wiggle.
The
curtains would now close
and the band would race
through the final bars of
the tune so as to reach
the end just as the
curtain finished its
journey. For a second or
two, the band would be
silent to allow patrons
to compose themselves.
The little red button
lights forming the number
of the act on either side
of the stage would change
and the band would then
strike up a new tune,
which would be the signature
tune of the second
act. Sadly, the second
act would most often have
to be tolerated. Rarely
would I find much to
enjoy from this act I
fear. The act would
generally be a comic, and
not an especially
experienced or skilled
one, I am sorry to say.
He would make a lot of
noise as he came on
stage, but would fail to
demonstrate much style or
class. I always felt that
he was someone in
training – a
kind of apprentice. The
crowds on a Thursday were
patient and kind and I
never ever heard any
heckling. I suspect that
audiences on Friday and
Saturday evenings, as
well as the ruffians
of the First House,
were probably less kind
and that the alcohol
consumed before the show
would most likely loosen
their tongues and remove
any inhibitions and would
cause some interesting
comments being directed
at the stage by such
members of the audience.
Anyway, nothing like that
happened on Thursdays
– we were a classy
audience!
I
don’t remember
laughing very much at
such acts. I don’t
know if this was due to
the comics not being
especially funny or if I
lacked a sense of humour
or whether I was too
young to appreciate their
humour. I do tell people
that I don’t tend to
lol, as they say
nowadays, and that I
don’t find many modern
day entertainers
amusing. Although this is
basically true, I do
laugh and find many
things amusing, just not modern
day comedians. I
suspect that I have a certain
taste, which I don’t
believe is better
or more sophisticated
than that of others, but
it is different. I like situations
and stories rather
than jokes. As a result,
I loathe comedy clubs.
I do not find the comics
funny or especially
talented. Also, I hate it
when, after getting the
audience to laugh at
something, they
immediately go into an
explanation of their punch
line or else milk
the joke beyond its
natural life span.
Occasionally
the audience would be
treated to an act
specializing in slapstick.
I cannot say that I have
ever been impressed with
this style of humour.
Generally, the act would
consist of two or three
men who would be dressed
as workmen of some sort.
Decorators were a
favourite amongst these
acts. The stage would be
set with a mock room with
a workman’s table in
the middle. These men
would then attempt to
wallpaper the room and
would walk into each
other while carrying
pasted wallpaper or else
walk on it while mounting
a ladder. The finale
would be where each would
slap each other
about the face with a
brush full of paste. The
highlight of the act
would be when the remains
of their buckets of paste
would be poured down the
trousers of one member.
This was supposed to be amusing
and cause us to laugh ourselves
silly. As you might
guess, I did not laugh
and found such acts to be
totally and utterly
without merit.
After the
comic, there would be
various other acts, and
if I were lucky, there
would be a magician. I
used to really like
magicians, but again,
being opinionated, the
magician had to meet
certain criteria to be
acceptable to me. I liked
magicians to be dressed
in evening clothes
complete with top hat and
carrying a walking stick
with a silver top and
above all they had to
wear a reasonably long
black cloak. This attire
was essential since it
demonstrated to me that
here was not just any
run of the mill
magician, but someone who
was a master magician
of significance and
excellence. In addition,
I did not like my
magicians to speak at
all. I felt that
magicians were more
mysterious and more
believable when silent. I
like the band to play
quietly in the background
and only come to
prominence with the
occasional drum roll
when some superior
illusion was about to
be performed. Magicians
were, after all,
entertainers of action
and had no need to waste
time with words. Most
magicians would be
accompanied by an
assistant, a woman who,
as far as I could tell,
did little except
silently giggle at what I
perceived to be nothing
and to overact her part
in a coy manner. I did
not appreciate the overly
expressive responses
given by these assistants
in response to the tricks
and illusions performed.
I saw these women as
being mere window
dressing and there
primarily to display long
and attractive stocking
clad legs while
attempting to divert
attention away from the
magician at crucial
times. One point of note
was that the fashion of
the day dictated that the
stockings have a long
black seam at the back,
which ran up from the
heel up the back of the
leg and disappeared
beneath a very short
skirt and overly frilly
knickers. The skirt would
fluff up to a narrow
waist and the bodice
would not be complete
without a plunging
neckline. The outfit
would often be studded
with Rhinestones, which
would catch the spotlight
and send sparkling
reflections about the
auditorium. At times, the
assistant would perhaps
wear a plain black
outfit, again with an
almost non-existent skirt
together with a little
white lacey apron and
something white and
delicate on her head. The
something would
not be of feathers and
less pleasing to me. I
now realize that these
additions were to give
the assistant the
appearance of a French
maid, which obviously
was meant to tantalize
and titillate many in the
audience.
Once on
stage, the magician would
remove his cloak in a
flurry and would whirl
and twirl it about him
before passing it to the
assistant. He would next
remove white gloves and
top hat while smiling at
the audience. Now he was
ready to start his act.
His assistant would make
much in her accepting of
the hat and would catch
the gloves, one at a
time, as the magician
threw them in her
direction. The stage
would be quite dark due
to the somber lighting
and the band would be
playing some mood
provoking tune, which
would help intensify the
pending mystery of what
was to come, thereby
helping to set the scene
for something special to
happen. The magician
would perform his tricks
and illusion while bathed
in the spotlight. This
was true drama in the
making and was very much
to my taste. Following
the completion of a
trick, the spotlight
would widen to include
the assistant, and he
would then bow and she
would curtsy despite her
having done little if
anything to deserve any
accolade.
 I
enjoyed most tricks
performed by a silent
magician. I liked to see
vast numbers of
handkerchiefs and scarves
appear out of his hands.
I enjoyed seeing rabbits
pulled out of top hats
and then seeing them
disappear again. What I
could not understand at
the time was why the
rabbits were always white.
I used to wonder if
rabbits ever came in
another colour. As
enjoyable as these tricks
were, the trick that I
liked best of all was
when a magician produced
white doves out of thin
air. This was the piece
de resistance as far
as I was concerned. I
loved to see these birds
fly about the auditorium
while the audience yelped
in pleasure or from fear
of droppings falling on
them. The birds would
circle just above the
heads of the people in
the fauteuils and
then fly up and come to
roost in the circle where
they would remain for a
minute or so before being
signaled by the magician
to swoop back over the
heads of the audience
once more and come to
land on his or his
assistant’s hand and
then be moved to a perch.
The
magician and his
assistant would take
several curtain calls
since such acts were
greatly appreciated.
Naturally I was
disappointed to see the
act end and often voiced
my opinion of this only
to be told to be quiet by
my mother. My father,
being somewhat like me,
was generally mesmerized
by the act of the
magician and would not
have heard anything that
I said since he was far
to engrossed in the
performance to have
noticed.
At some
time in the show, there
would be either a juggler
or a troupe
of acrobats.
If we were lucky, we
would get both.
Naturally, had I been booking
the acts, we would
have had both types of
acts each week since they
were great favourites of
mine. As a result of
seeing these acts and
being inspired by them, I
learned to juggle three
oranges at once and do cartwheels,
tumbles and forward
and backward rolls as
a child. I am still able
to juggle oranges, but
sadly I have not been
able to perform an
acceptable cartwheel,
tumble or roll,
either backward or
forward, for many years
now. I admired those
jugglers who could spin
hoops on their arms and
on one leg while
balancing several rubber
balls on a stick held
between their teeth. I
also enjoyed those acts
where choppers, giant
knives and other
sharp and dangerous
utensils were tossed
about with great speed
and caught with
dexterity. Although I saw
the ability to fling
and catch such
dangerous objects, at
that time, as great
talent, I soon learned
that such an ability was
insufficient to allow
those blessed with such a
gift to ever top the
bill at any theatre.
And sadly, neither would
tumbling nor flying
through the air and being
caught on a
partner’s shoulders
bring headliner’s
fame to the exponents.
However, despite this
such artistes gave
me much pleasure at the
time and for this I am
grateful.
 There
would be a number of specialty
acts on the bill each
week for the
entertainment of the
audience. Most would be fillers
in for the first and
second halves of the bill
while the audience waited
patiently for the
better-known acts to
appear at the end of each
half of the bill.
However, there would be
an occasional act that
would work their way up
over the years to top
the bill. One such
act, which I remember
fondly, was the singing
comedy duo of Chic
Murray & Maidie. Chic
Murray
was a tall man and was head
and shoulders taller
than Maidie. He used
their difference in
height to great effect,
as he would stand
directly behind her while
he sang and she played
the accordion. He would make
faces and roll his
eyes as he sang while
Maidie played and smiled.
He had a very dry wit and
would relate amusing
anecdotes in a very droll
manner. I was very taken
by this act and always
enjoyed seeing them. He
seemed to be a mild
mannered man and never
raised his voice during
their act. He was without
doubt a master of the
throwaway line.
Another
type of specialty
acts
was the animal
act.
Now, since I was a child,
it would be reasonable to
suppose that I would
enjoy these acts.
Unfortunately, I did not.
Most were dog
acts
and since I did not like
the kinds of dogs used in
the acts, I was not too
impressed with their
abilities to chase or
catch balls thrown their
way or else applaud as
one animal walked a thin
beam without falling from
it. One act that I
remember was one where
the trainer was a woman
and the dogs were
poodles. I have never
been a lover of the
poodle and dislike what
owners do to their coats.
I dislike the fact that
these hunting dogs
have been reduced to
delicate frou-frou creatures
decked out in silly
exaggerated feminine
attire including a bow on
their heads.
I much
preferred larger animals
as seen at circuses. I
liked lion and elephant
acts very much. When I
was a child, several
giant circuses traveled
about the country
although Britain was
never really a circus
country. By the time
I left school, I believe
that there was only one
company still touring the
country. I was taken only
once to a large circus as
a child. I have never had
the wish to return as an
adult although I had the
opportunity each year
while living in New York
City to attend a
performance of the Barnum
& Bailey, Ringling
Brothers Circus
during their annual trip
to Madison Square
Gardens. I used to
belong to a theatre club
at that time and would
regularly be offered very
reasonably priced tickets
to do so, but never took
advantage of it. The one
time that I did go to the
circus was when I was
still quite small, and it
was to see Tom
Arnold’s Circus just
before Christmas one
year. The circus was
being presented at the Harringay
Arena in North East
London, which was a long
bus ride from where we
were living. The
presentation was a three
rings circus and was
jam packed with
acts of various types.
The clowns did not overly
impress me, as I did not
like their outfits or
their make-up. In
fact, I found them to be
somewhat creepy and
really disliked it when
they came into the
audience. I felt as if
they were about to kidnap
me. I did my best to
smile as they ran by, as
I did not want to give
them an excuse to single
me out for the taking.
 I
remember that Sabu,
the elephant boy,
topped the bill. He was
an Indian who had made
some rather good films in
both England and the
U.S.A. before and just
after the war. As tastes
changed, he moved over to
the circus and finished
out his career there. The
elephants were
magnificent and I was
especially impressed when
Sabu allowed one
of his legs to enter the
elephant’s mouth and
then suspended himself
upside down thanks to the
grip of the animal’s
lips. There were also
lions and tiger acts in
the circus. Each was
daring and slightly
frightening. What I did
not like was the sound of
the cracking of the
whip used often to
maintain order amongst the
big cats. I
believe that someone
actually put their head
into a lion’s mouth
that evening. I remember
thinking that they must
be nuts to do
this.
It was
unfortunate that the
stage at the Hackney
was too small to
accommodate a large
animal act and so
nothing as exotic as one
with lions or elephants
was presented there, or
rather was seen by me.
However, I do remember
seeing a trapeze act at
the theatre on one
occasion. I recall that
the troupe had an exotic
name and were apparently
brothers. They wore
spectacular shiny
costumes of bright gaudy
colours along with long
flowing cloaks. I liked
the cloaks very much, but
sadly, was not overly
impressed with the act.
However, I was impressed
with the trapeze act
that I saw at the circus
since this was high
wire and dangerous
despite the use of a
safety net. Naturally,
the Hackney did
not lend itself to being
a venue for such
an act. The stage lacked
sufficient height to
cause the audience to
feel that the performers
were daring and
that their feats were
spectacular and, as a
result, their act failed
to impress me to any
great extent.
 When
I was a child, new films
were showcased in
the West End of London
and then after several
weeks were sent out on general
release where they
could be seen at popular
prices. They would
play for a week at the
local Gaumont, Odeon
or ABC and would
then disappear, never to
be seen again unless they
were revived at a Classic
cinema. Rarely would a
film be re-released or held
over for a second
week in general
release. One film
that I believe was
returned to general
release was The
Third Man,
which is an excellent film
noire set in an eerie
Vienna just after the end
of the second world war.
The film was directed by
the great Carol Reed and
starred Orson Wells and
many other excellent
performers including Valli,
whose grandniece was in
the same residency
programme as me during my
medical training. Some of
the great success that
this film enjoyed was due
to the soundtrack,
which was provided by the
excellent Anton Karas and
his zither
playing. He had played
with the Vienna
Philharmonic Orchestra
and can be heard to
perfection on their Tales
of the Vienna Woods.
The main
theme in the film, The
Harry Lime Theme, was
a haunting melody and
became a big hit
of the day. It was played
constantly on Housewives’
Choice
and the other request
programmes of the time.
Both the film and its
music impressed me very
much and caused me to
write to Uncle Mac,
the then presenter
of Children’s
Favourites,
which aired each Saturday
morning and asked him to
play it especially, but
he didn’t. I never
liked Uncle Mac
and found him to be
somewhat of a snob. He
hardly ever played
anything modern
and only seemed to like nursery
rhymes and antiquated
songs. I remember that on
one occasion he aired Chuck
Berry’s School Day.
Obviously the poor fellow
had not heard this song
before and interrupted
taking it off the air
midway through while
saying well, I think
that we have had quite
enough of that! That
was it, as far as I was
concerned and caused me
to have enough of him.
I never listened to Children’s
Favourites and Children’s
Hour again whenever
he was the presenter.
The
Third Man
became an instant classic
and I still watch it from
time to time and find it
as interesting and
entertaining as ever. The
film was made in black
and white and was
filled with wonderful
scenes with the most
remarkable and memorable
images: jagged shadows
slicing across cobbled
streets and with danger
lurking around every
corner. As a result
of this film, I became a
lifelong devotee
of film noire and
could not wait to visit
Vienna and especially The
Prater and to go on The
Great Wheel. I
remember my first visit.
I could not wait for
night to come. I remember
waiting until it was past
midnight before I slipped
out alone to prowl
those same dark streets.
Despite the occupation
being long since over and
the black market
having long since ceased
to trade, I was not
disappointed with what I
found. The streets were
poorly lit still and were
silent. They appeared to
retain that same
forbidding quality
captured to perfection on
film by Carol Reed. The
sense of mystique
and danger was
heightened by my shadow,
as it seemingly chased me
down the streets and by
the menacing sounds
caused by my footsteps.
In those
days, I liked to put
metal taps on the heels
of my shoes. As I walked
those cold, dark and
slippery streets, despite
my wish to creep
along the streets without
being seen or heard, my
presence was announced by
the sound made from steel
striking the worn
cobblestone of that
war-ravaged part of the
city. The echoes made by
my steps - click
… click … click
– resonated up and
down those narrow
deserted thoroughfares
and bounced back and
forth off the somber and
seemingly empty buildings
that lined them. As I
made my way, I remained
in the shadows trying to
limit the offensive sound
as best I could. I fear
that I was unsuccessful
in this. Unfortunately, I
am sorry to say that the
combination of the echoes
and the menacing and
threatening shadows that
I made as I moved
with increasing speed
down the street caused my
imagination to take
control and quickly I
soon began to believe
that someone or,
worse yet, something
was in pursuit of me with
harmful desires. I was
relieved when eventually
I reached a larger and
better-lit thoroughfare.
Too much imagination can
be dangerous.
 I
was overjoyed when I
learned that Anton Karas
along with his zither was
to appear at the Hackney.
Fortunately my parents
were as enthusiastic as
me to see this man and
hear his playing. I took
it as a personal insult
that he did not top
the bill, but was
given a spot in
the first half.
Naturally I voiced my
disgust at the insult
that was made to the
great virtuoso for
those about me to hear
after taking our seats at
the theatre, but my
mother told me to be
quiet or else there would
be no ice cream during
the interval. Herr Karas
appeared seated centre
stage with the zither
on his lap and played a
number of tunes that were
pleasing on the ear. I
was disappointed that he
did not speak to the
audience between tunes,
but I don’t believe
that this was a
disrespectful act, for he
appeared to be a happy,
almost jolly man, who
smiled his appreciation
to the audience. I do
remember being greatly
taken by his outfit. He
was dressed in very fine
dark gray woolen suit
with what seemed to be
green embroidery on the
breast pocket and on the
lower part of the
sleeves. I later learned
that his suit was in
the Austrian style. I
also remember hoping that
my parents would buy a
similar one for me.
Again, I was
disappointed. Years
later, I did buy myself
an Austrian-style
overcoat and still have
it in my cupboard,
although I hate to say
that it has long since
ceased to fit me.
Somehow, I cannot bring
myself to part with it.
The climax
of his act was the
playing of the
theme music
from the film. This
brought much applause as
the first few notes were
plucked and once again
after he finished
playing. I was very
impressed with everything
that I saw and heard but
especially with this
piece. All too soon he
had now reached the end
of his act. He stood,
smiled and bowed and then
held his zither above his
head for all to see and
admire. I remember
standing and clapping for
I most certainly admired
him and his zither. I
wanted more playing but encores
were not generally given
by supporting acts.
I was most unhappy when
the curtains closed on
him and his zither and
the band began to play
the signature tune of the
next act. Still, it was
exciting to have seen a
zither and heard it
played. I remember being
amazed that such a small
and unusual instrument
could produce such
wonderfully haunting
sounds. The act was
without doubt the
highlight of my evening
and, sadly for all the
other acts that followed,
they were all destined to
pale in comparison.
I remember
still those haunting
sounds that came from
Anton Karas’ zither.
They were both haunting
and captivating. Each
time I hear the strains
of that particular tune
from The Third Man,
I find myself transported
back to those dark and
dangerous cobblestone
streets and to that subterranean
world portrayed in
the film and I remembered
that cold night that I
walked them when I was
younger and lacked sense.
There were
many other
instrumentalists that
played for the audiences
during the first half
ranging from
accordionists to sea
lions blowing little
horns. Although I have
long since forgotten
their names and the
details of their acts, I
feel certain that each
act tried its best to
please their audience and
most succeeded.
I think
that one of the strangest
acts that I saw at the Hackney
was that of G.H. Elliott,
or as he billed himself G.H.
Elliott, The Chocolate
Coloured Coon. Please
remember that this was
the early 1950’s,
and political correctness
had not entered the
public psyche as of yet.
Mr. Elliott’s skin
did appear chocolate
in colour, but whether
this was from being of
African descent or by the
use of make-up, I am
unable to say.
 Mr.
Elliott was well past his
prime when I saw him on a
Thursday night since he
was no longer topping
the bill or even topping
the first half. When
I saw him, he was
appearing in the first
half of the bill and was
about the fourth or fifth
act. I remember my mother
being especially pleased
to see him and she sang
along to all his
songs. He was casually
and colourfully dressed
with a bright yellow
waistcoat, check
trousers, white shirt and
cravat. I was very
impressed by his attire
and thought that he
wanted to be a golliwog,
which were dolls that
were very popular in my
childhood.
G.H. was a song
and dance man and sadly one that
had seen better days.
He was reasonably tall
and very thin but was no
longer young. His singing
voice was unusual to say
the least. I had never
heard anything like it
before and have never
heard anything like it
since. It was, to my
young ears, more of a wobbling than actual singing. The
sound was somewhat higher
than that of a tenor but
not quite as high as a
soprano. I think that he
could yodel too, and may
well have. Sadly,
yodeling is not a singing
form that I admire as it
is somewhat unpleasant to
my ears and so not to my
taste. He sang a number
of songs, which were well
received, yet for a song
and dance man I
noticed that during these
initial songs, he did not
appear to dance much at all. Rather he
remained in one spot and swayed somewhat in time with to
the music.
Although
G.H. appeared to be
limber and spry, when he
finally began to move
about the stage, one
could see that he had
great difficulty walking.
Sadly, his inability to move
with ease proved even
more problematic later
for him once he decided
to dance, which
mercifully, he did not do
until the last song of
his act. By then,
although I felt great
pain for him as he tried
to limp about the
stage and was very
embarrassed by his poor
feeble efforts, I had my
own problems to contend
with, which would bring
me much sadness during
the interval. But I am
getting ahead of myself.
G.H.’s
most popular song was Lily
of Laguna
and he obviously sang it
now as the finale
of his act. As the
introductory bars began
to be played by the band,
the audience broke into a
hearty round of applause.
They were evidently eager
to show their admiration
of him I do not doubt
since many remembered him
in better days. I
recall him smiling and
then bowing his
appreciation of the
crowd’s response and
then began to sing.
Community
singing is something
that I had, and still
have, strong opinions
about. I think
group singing should be
saved for church, folk
clubs, outside of pubic
houses after closing time
and before football cup
finals. I find it
embarrassing to be seated
amongst a group of
strangers who are
somewhat familiar with
the lyrics of a song and
who all seem to sing in
different keys. My
parents always thought
that I was miserable
when I refused to sing
along with the audience.
Towards
the midpoint of Mr.
Elliott’s rendition
of Lily of Laguna,
he went into his dance
– a soft shoe
shuffle. Although he
was still able to hold
a tune, his dancing
left much to be desired.
I remember my mother,
obviously thinking aloud,
remarked as he stumbled
about the stage, that he
obviously had trouble
with his pins,
meaning that he suffered
with some foot problems.
An innocent comment, you
might think, and under
other circumstances I am
sure that it would have
gone unnoticed by me.
However, at that precise
moment, her remark must
have hit my funny bone
since it was remarkable
in its understating of
the situation at hand. I
recall that I found her
comment very funny and
began to laugh. Once I
started to laugh, I found
that I could not stop. My
laughter could not, and
would not, be controlled
despite my mother telling
me to be quiet. I tried
pretending that I was
having a coughing spell,
but this only made the
laughter louder. One or
two of those about me now
began to turn around and tut-tut
at me and made comments
on how I was obviously
too young to be allowed
in the theatre since
they felt that I did not
know how to behave. In
the end, I had to slip
out of my fort-tell
and on to the floor and
stuff a handkerchief in
my mouth until G.H. had
completed his act
whereupon I could hide my
laughter in the sounds of
the applause, which
mercifully, was robust
and loud.
Fortunately,
G.H.’s dance
and act soon came to an
end and he left the stage
after receiving a great
deal of applause and
several curtain calls.
The following act was,
thank heavens, a comic.
Whether he was good or
bad, I do not know, but
thanks to him, I was able
to laugh officially
and, again thanks to him,
I was soon able to return
to my normal non-laughing
state as a result of
my inability to find
anything that he said to
be funny.
My
behaviour during
G.H.’s act, I knew,
would not go without
comment and would most
likely reap a punishment.
I was dreading the
interval and once it
came, I learned fully of
the shame and humiliation
that I had brought on my
family and on my mother
in particular. My mother
was mortified. I was
accused of showing her
up in public and, as
a result, I was to be
given no ice cream.
Obviously, my mother
refused to take any
responsibility in this
event and would not
listen when I dared to
accuse her of causing the
laughter with her
comment. She would have
none of that. What upset
me was the severity
of the punishment given
to me. It wasn’t
that I minded not getting
the ice cream. I could
easily live without it.
What I found unfair, if
not cruel, was being
denied my visit with the
ice cream lady. In
general, I was the only child
in the theatre during the
second house, and as
a result, I was somewhat
of a curiosity and was
often singled out by both
public and staff. My
parents were told often
how lucky they were to
have a son that knew how
to conduct himself in
public. I would smile
sweetly and would
sometimes be rewarded
with little gifts of
sweets or ice cream from
these folks. Naturally,
amongst the staff I had
my favourites, and
the ice cream lady topped
that list. So it was with
a heavy heart that I was
forced to accept such
severe punishment and not
visit her as she stood at
the front of the stalls
with a large tray of
tasty morsels for sale. I
remember asking if I
might go and say hello
to her, but my mother
with one of those stony
looks on her face said no.
I tried appealing to my
father knowing full well
that this would be
useless, but one always
lived in hope that he
might overrule my mother.
My father never really
bothered himself with my
upbringing and never overruled
my mother in such
matters. It wasn’t
that he didn’t care
about me or that he
necessarily agreed with
her wishes and punishment
of me, it was simply that
he lacked the interest to
involve himself in
the matter. And so my
appeal to him proved, as
it always did, to be
fruitless. He dismissed
it, with a wave of his
hand, which indicated his
unwillingness to become
involved, and told me
that it was my own
fault. He would then
give me a wave of his
hand, as if to dismiss me
totally, and turn away.
And I am afraid to say
that this was the end of
the matter and I had to lump
it and go without my
treat and my talk to the ice
cream lady.
Fortunately, I was not
the sulking kind and soon
got over this harsh
punishment.
 Perhaps
the most famous person
that I saw in the first
half of the bill at
the Hackney was
Julie Andrews. Ms Andrews
began her career when she
was very young. She
formed a trio with her
father who sang duets
with her and her mother
who accompanied them on
the piano. She was
obviously a talented
young girl as I remember
her well and remember
thinking that she had a
good voice. She must have
been about fourteen years
of age at that time and
had long brown hair and
wore a white dress. She
was very ladylike
and curtsied to the
audience after each song.
The young
Miss Andrews and her
father would sing old-fashioned
songs and one that
she sang alone and which
I am able to recall was The
Merry Merry Pipes of Pan.
My father, who fancied
himself as a singer (more
of this later!), would
sing this song in the
bathroom. However, he
could not reach the high
notes with the same ease
that Miss Andrews
achieved. Sadly, such
songs were not to my
taste as a child. I had discovered,
without realizing it, rhythm
‘n’ blues,
at a young and tender age
thanks to the teachings
of a ‘record
seller that had
befriended me (more of
him elsewhere also) and
was, without realizing
it, into Louis
Jordan and was merrily
singing ditties like Is
you is or is you
ain’t my baby?
and I
want you to be my baby.
At that time, I saw
nothing remiss in the
lyrics. We were after all
in the early 1950s and
these types of songs were
not commonplace in
Britain at that time and
were rarely, if ever,
played on the radio,
thanks to the puritanical
policy imposed on
listeners by the B.B.C.
at that time.
I remember
that when I was about
seven or eight years old,
I was once walking down a
corridor at school and
singing aloud one of
these R ‘n’
B songs. I feel
certain that it was Is
you is or is you
ain’t my baby
since this was my
favourite song for many
years. I fear that the
teacher who overhead my
singing must have had
obvious differing musical
tastes to myself since
she immediately marched
me off to the Head
Master’s office to
await his pleasure.
Unfortunately, he too was
not hip to the
tunes much admired by me
and I was severely
spoken to and given a
note to take home to my
parents detailing my
detestable and despicable
behaviour. The letter
complained of my
choice of song and my
parents were asked to see
that such an incident
did not reoccur. My
parents were mortified at
the shame that my
behaviour had brought
down on them as a result
of my careless choice of
song and I was told never
to repeat this obvious
offense to society again.
Over the years, I have
come to believe that it
was not so much that I
was singing that
was of such an offense to
my teachers’
sensitive ears, but
rather the poor
grammar associated
with the song that most
disturbed them. I feel
certain that they were
not familiar with my
chosen musical genre of
the time and certainly
were not familiar with
the history of the
singers that popularized
it.
The last
act of the first half of
the bill would be
reserved for someone
on their way up, that
is to say, an act that
was on the rise,
someone on their way
up to the top. When
the Beatles started their
careers in earnest, their
manager, Brian Epstein,
arranged for them to
travel the Music Hall circuit
and the group members
often credited what they
learned from the other
acts regarding stage
presence and how
to talk to an audience
to this time spent on
the boards. During
this time in their
careers, the group was
seen as being on their
way up and would
regularly close the first
half of the show.
Apparently, they toured
with the singer, Helen
Shapiro, who became
miffed with them as the
tour went on, as they
began receiving more
applause than she even
though she was topping
the bill at the time.
When I was
taken to the Hackney,
such a singer, on the
way up, would most
often close the first
half. These
performers were on the
brink of becoming a
household name and
most had enjoyed some
recent success selling
gramophone records. Their
success would be assured
thanks largely to the
request shows that were
very popular at the time.
Once this happened, and
if they could come up
with a follow up hit,
it would not be long
before these singers
would be topping the
bill and closing the second
half. With this, they
would be considered as
having made it in
their chosen profession.
At that time, television
was still in its infancy
and few owned a set, but
this was about to change
and the one-time novelty
was about to explode
onto the scene and become
part of almost
everyone’s home. In
the achievement of this
goal, suitable
programming would be
necessary in the hope of
luring the general public
into purchasing
television sets, which
were not cheap in those
days. And so, alas, the
television companies
began to ravage the Musical
Hall circuits and woo
the talented and not
so talented away from
the boards with
the promise of easier and
increased revenue
along with quick fame
thanks to the vast
audience that the medium
would soon attract.
|
