My Old Man: A Personal History of Music Hall. John Major

technology were needed to create more extravagant productions.

      Music hall was born of no fixed abode. It was one strand of an impulse to entertain that, throughout the centuries, faced down religious prejudice, social and political hostility, attempts at licensing and censorship. It was the child of many parents, raised in many guises and even more places. But always, it was an art for individuals. And when the individual began to be subsumed beneath a demand for greater spectacle, the pulse of music hall began to slow. There were other changes too. As transport improved, audiences were able to travel more easily, and their entertainment options widened. The success of music hall had come from the people, and as the people tired of it, its allure faded.

      This book is not an attempt at a definitive history of music hall – that would fill many volumes. But it is the story of the rise and fall of a unique form of entertainment. Whilst I was writing it, figures who were at first simply names on playbills took shape and came to life. I hope I have painted them faithfully. They were, like all of us, shaped by time and circumstance; fighting – at first for survival, and then for success – in a tough and ruthless profession. Some dreamed but failed. Some succeeded gloriously. Some could not cope with fame. Some were stalked by heartbreak and failure. But they are all part of the story.

      The great days of music hall are now gone forever. But its story is glamorous, its impact widespread and its legacy enduring. The art form that was once derided for moral degeneracy has, over time, assumed the iconic status of a world we have lost, and values that have been misplaced. At its core stood the entertainers. Their echo still resounds. This is their story.

      It is the final encore for my parents, Tom and Gwen.

* My father was born Thomas Ball. ‘Major’ was a stage name. Had he not changed it, I would have been John Ball, and thus have shared the name of one of the leaders of the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381.

1

       The Road to Music Hall

      ‘Beer flowed freely … occasionally there were big banquets … where there would be heavy drinking, and sometimes a row.’

      EDWARD YATES, WRITER, DRAMATIST AND JOURNALIST, RECALLING CREMORNE GARDENS IN THE 1840S IN RECOLLECTIONS AND EXPERIENCES (1865)

      All the components of music hall derive from earlier forms of theatrical entertainment: music, dance, comedy, variety, mime, clowning, costume; rapport with the audience; the marriage of food and drink and entertainment; and affordable tickets to attract a mass audience. By the end of the Restoration period all of these were understood, but the full recipe for music hall was not yet in place: some disparate ingredients were still needed before, in John Betjeman’s memorable phrase, it became ‘the poetry and song of the people’. Throughout the eighteenth century the seeds were germinating in pleasure gardens, saloon theatres and catch and glee clubs, and they would soon blossom in song and supper rooms, taverns and music houses.

      Pleasure gardens had a long history. The concept had existed since Ancient Rome, when gardens acquired by the Emperor Tiberius were opened to the public. These were free of charge, but their English successors were commercial operations, offering refreshment in an attractive setting. It is easy to see why they became popular. They were a refreshing contrast to rival amusements such as bear-baiting, dog fights and public executions. In an age when travel was too expensive for most, they offered relaxation at weekends and the gentle leisure of walking, playing, eating and drinking at modest cost in pleasant surroundings.

      The most fashionable gardens were magnets for refined patrons seeking a genteel mixture of concerts, masquerades, quality dining and, often, fireworks to enliven the evening. Vauxhall Gardens, now the network of streets to the north of The Oval cricket ground, was perhaps the most famous. Cupers Gardens, on the site of the present-day National Theatre, Marylebone Gardens, between Marylebone High Street and Harley Street, and Ranelagh Gardens, broadly on the site of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, were also popular venues. Each garden had its own charm and special attractions. Concerts and novelty acts rubbed shoulders with skittles and bowls. Some gardens featured defined walks punctuated by ornate plantations, water fountains, grottos and follies lured quieter souls, while others offered more raffish customers the wilder delights of gambling.

      When Vauxhall Gardens opened around 1660, admission was free but charges were levied for refreshments. It rose to pre-eminence under the management of Jonathan Tyers, who having enlarged the gardens to about sixteen acres, began to charge an admission fee. Orchestras played nightly, and concerts were held in a rotunda where patrons could dine and dance. The energetic Tyers dotted the grounds with architectural attractions and fake gothic ruins. Vauxhall was widely copied at home and overseas. Whales in Bayswater, Highbury Barn in Clerkenwell, Bagnigge Wells in King’s Cross and St Helene Gardens in Rotherhithe all borrowed ideas from Vauxhall, So too did Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen.

      Cupers Gardens, the principal London rival to Vauxhall, specialised in firework displays and boasted an ornamental lake, bowling greens, arbours and attractive walks. Each night, at the height of its popularity an orchestra and band played nightly. But it also became a haunt for prostitutes, card sharps and general villainy, which in due course undermined its appeal to more sober citizens. In 1753, its licence was revoked on the grounds that it was ‘a haunt of vice’, and after a brief interlude as a tea garden, Cupers closed in 1760.

      The larger gardens built promenade platforms and elaborate music rooms to present the most popular performers of the day. In 1765, the nine-year-old Mozart performed in the rotunda at Ranelagh. This was the birth of saloon theatre, a hybrid of theatre and tavern standing in its own gardens.

      The admission charge for the pleasure gardens varied from half a crown for the best-appointed and most fashionable to sixpence for semi-rural tea-house gardens in places like Highbury, Hornsey and White Conduit House in Pentonville, where the entrance fee included a token to be redeemed for refreshment. Tea had only been introduced to England in 1652, but swiftly replaced ale as the national drink. Every strata of society patronised the tea houses, and their new ‘exotic’ import was considered to be a cure for all ills, from headaches to syphilis.

      Apart from the efficacious powers of tea, the gardens offering benefits to health were generally spas, whose waters were widely believed to have healing properties. They also provided entertainment, no doubt in the belief that it would soothe their customers and make them less likely to question the effectiveness of the health treatment. But fashions changed, and the spas began to lose custom. Bermondsey Spa is typical: in 1795 a visitor noted: ‘the once famed place was most rapidly on the decline … three idle waiters were clumped for want of a call … As we reached the orchestra, the singer curtsied to us, for we were the only persons in the gardens.’ Nine years later, Bermondsey closed.

      The pleasure gardens too fell out of favour. Cupers Gardens closed in 1753, Marylebone in 1778 and Ranelagh in 1803. Vauxhall struggled on, but became an irresistible attraction for vice. One customer commented acidly that it would be better ‘if there were more nightingales and fewer strumpets’. In 1813, in an attempt to boost its fortunes, Vauxhall staged a fête to celebrate Wellington’s victory at the Battle of Vitoria, and in the 1820s it introduced sword-swallowers, military re-enactments, shadow pantomimes and performances of comic songs. Crowds flocked to see the intrepid Madame Saqui walk down a tightrope to the ground from a height of sixty feet amid bursting fireworks. In 1827, a thousand soldiers re-enacted the Battle of Waterloo, and in the 1830s the gardens were illuminated by 15,000 glass lamps for 19,000 visitors on a single evening. As the spectacles grew, the price of admission fell from its peak of four shillings and sixpence to one shilling. But economic times were tough, and shillings were hard to come by: the demise of Vauxhall was inevitable.

      As Vauxhall declined, it tried to cash in on the growing popularity of comic singers. Novelties were tried: Herr von Joel, an eccentric German comic entertainer, would jump out from behind bushes to entertain passers-by, but unsurprisingly, this often caused more alarm than amusement. In 1840 the owners went bankrupt and the gardens closed. They attempted a relaunch two