THE AGE BEFORE MUSIC HALLS
More than five-and-thirty years ago enterprising persons in London began to
establish public-house and tavern concerts for the working class, to which their
wives might be admitted. The large "free-and-easies" such as the Coal
Hole and the Cider Cellars were too late and too aristocratic for the mechanic,
and the necessity of such resorts began to be felt as the taste for music
increased.
The earliest pianists at these cheap concerts were, for the
most part, broken-down music-masters, who had drifted into the shallow water,
clinging to a dilapidated "Broadwood's grand." As these men were
generally blind, or nearly so, they made little progress with new music, as all
their accompaniments were by ear; and the singer who aspired to novelty had to
intrust his new song to the players to take home, where some son or daughter
would, by dint of hard work, beat it into their memory.
The concert-room at the date we mention was generally the
first floor of a public- house, sometimes enlarged by throwing in two or three
bedrooms. The decorations were often conflicting, as the tastes of previous
proprietors had differed, so that it was not unusual to see the Flight into
Egypt facing the Fight between Cribb and Molyneaux; and as the kitchen chimney
was the main support of the room, the portion of the apartment which abutted on
it had to be avoided by the guests from the excessive heat. Occasionally, as at
the King's Arms, in the Coal-yard, Drury-lane, the proximity of rival amusements
jarred on the general harmony, and produced strange combinations of sound. Under
this concert-room was a skittle ground, and many a pretty ballad was marred by
the crash of a "floorer," the smash and rumble of the nine pins, or
the warm cheers that welcomed their downfall. The enchantment of skittles, also,
sometimes wiled away a singer till the very moment before he was wanted, and the
pianist would have to dash off an extra tune while "Mr. Prosser went
against two," which feat having been accomplished with more or less
success, the eminent vocalist would return to the room in the act of putting on
his coat, followed by his flushed partner in the game, and, mounting the
platform, would sing Hurrah for the Road, or the Ice-clad Alps, in his very best
style.
The humble concert-rooms were open three nights a week,
generally Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. The Mogul, in Drury-lane, now the
Middlesex Music Hall, the St. James's Saloon, in Swallow-street, Piccadilly, and
the Grapes, in Old Compton-street, Soho, at last ventured on nightly
performances, but at first with very indifferent success.
At the first public-house concert rooms established, the
conductor was generally a comic singer, who also served as a waiter. He received
a percentage of one penny a pot on all beer he sold, and the same amount on all
glasses of spirits, mixed or neat. As late as in 1838-9, this somewhat
humiliating custom prevailed at such rooms as the Union, at the corner of
Baker-street, Bagnigge Wells-road, where an old reciter, known as Jemmy Gibbs,
used first to perform and then hand round the pots of beer, and at the Standard,
at Pimlico, where a clever comic singer, named Bob Fisher, would not give an
encore till he had sedulously filled his noisy patrons' pots and glasses.
At this period the sentimental songs, full of love and
romance, were derived chiefly from old and new operas. The ballads were those
sung by Madame Vestris or Mrs. Honey; the comic songs were either by James
Hudson, the Dibdins, or Moncrieff, with occasionally some ditty, such as Solomon
Lobb, or the Miller's Ditty, which Sam Vale had warbled into popularity at the
Surrey Theatre. Gradually new comic songs were in request, and fresh authors
rose to supply the wants, Messrs. Prest, Bruton, Hall, Freeman, Humphreys, and
Labern, writing clever songs on passing events.
One of the earliest tavern concert-rooms was The Chequers, in
Abingdon-street, Westminster, the chief attraction a comic singer, Mr. John
Herbert, better known as Jerry Herbert, who afterwards attained some celebrity
at Sadler's Wells as a low comedian, and was exceedingly popular there in
Greenwood's farce That Rascal Jack, of which he was the original hero.
To insure the proper carrying out of these entertainments, it
was of course necessary to engage, in addition to the pianist, a company of
vocalists, the general number being four - a lady, a gentlemen sentimental, and
two comic, the latter being as dissimilar in style as possible. The time of
nightly entertainment was from half-past eight, when the concert commenced,
until its conclusion at half-past eleven, and no singer was allowed to appear at
any other room during those hours without the permission of the landlord. A fine
of sixpence or a shilling, as agreed on, was levied on all who did not take part
in the opening chorus, all salaries were paid nightly, and a week's notice on
either side terminated the engagement.
The scale of remuneration ranged from three shillings to five
shillings a night, according to ability or popularity, and, in addition, a
refreshment ticket was allowed, which represented the amount of sixpence, to be
taken out according to the fancy of the singer. In the case of the male singer,
there was a further bonus in the shape of a screw of tobacco.
Inconsiderable as this remuneration may appear at first
sight, when it is taken into consideration that none of the performers were
strictly professionals, that is, singing for a livelihood, the reader will
perceive that three or four nights a week of such supplementary income made a
goodly item in their weekly earnings. As a rule, the majority of male vocalists
were mechanics, shoemakers and tailors preponderating, with here and there a
lawyer's clerk and a compositor; while the ladies plied their needles in the
daytime as dressmakers or milliners, and hat and shoe-binders, and many cases
could be recorded where a well-educated girl descended to concert-room vocalism
to uphold the broken fortunes of an invalid father or mother, or to support one
or two orphan brothers and sisters.
The prices charged for admission were in most cases one penny
or twopence: some few, indeed, charged threepence but the price was no argument
of respectability, one or two of the best conducted keeping to one penny, with
which they originally started. The Standard, in Vauxhall Bridge-road, the Fox
and Bull, at Knightsbridge, the Swan at Hungerford Market, and the Spread Eagle,
in Kingsland-road, all charged threepence admission, and the two former adhered
most despotically to one annoying announcement, "No servants admitted in
livery!" Such a rule, it may be conceived, could but be offensive in those
neighbourhoods where plush and powder "most did congregate;" so, to
soften it down as much as possible, dress-coats were held in reserve by the
proprietors, which were kindly lent in exchange for the livery ones quietly laid
aside in the bar-parlour, and John and Thomas were thus enabled to escort Mary
Jane or Jemima to the realms of harmony upstairs in full evening dress. What was
the reason of this restriction no one could learn, for at the same time another
establishments, the St. James's Saloon, in Swallow-street, cordially received
the proscribed class, and during the opera season at Her Majesty's, it was
nothing uncommon to see in its concert-room fifty or sixty servants, in full
livery, whiling away the interval between "setting down" and
"taking up" their masters and mistresses at the theatre. The Nag's
Head in Oxford-street, was also much patronised by servants; the "knights
of the whip" doubling in number the "gentleman of the cane" in
that quarter.
In addition to the hard-handed vocalists we have spoken of,
there occasionally appeared a species of professional parasite, whose origin was
a mystery to all : such a one was "Mr. Wilson, extemporaneous singer,"
or "Tub-thumping Wilson," as he was more generally called. He was one
of those unblushing specimens of humanity who, however, brow-beaten and
buffeted, can never realise the fact that their presence is not wanted : he was
a smug-looking man of about five feet six, and combined in his half-prim,
half-dirty exterior the seedy copying-clerk merging into the fourth-rate mute,
or vice versa. His stock in trade consisted of two love ballads, which he
warbled in a finicking style, an "extemporaneous" song, copies of
which he would sell, with instructions for its adaptation to any company; he
also carried papers of blacking and packets of tea, which he sold in the rooms
between the songs when opportunity offered; and as a climax to all this, he held
forth on Sundays as street preacher in the pens of Smithfield, and it was in
special recognition of this last practice that he had acquired the cognomen of
Tub-thumping Wilson.
No matter in what part of London a benefit concert was
announced, Mr. Wilson was bound to turn up, and watching his opportunity - for
no one would "put him on" if they could help it - perhaps in the
absence of some one announced in the bill, he would force himself before the
public, and on leaving the platform commence hawking his tea and blacking
amongst the audience. Mr. W. always had a benefit coming, and if the party
solicited to purchase a ticket of him was unluckily leaving town, he would
kindly inquire the date of their probable return …
. . . In 1839 and 1840, many gross attacks on private
character appeared in a certain scurrilous periodical, amongst whose victims
were persons well-known and respect in public and private life, its chief mark
being concert-room singers. Meetings for suppressing this nuisance were held …
a fund being raised for prosecuting the proprietor [of the periodical]. … On
the suppression of the paper the [legal] action was withdrawn, and the balance
of the fund raised for its prosecution was given as a nucleus for the Harmonic
Benevolent Society, none but persons employed in the concert-rooms being
admitted as members. Mr. Willy was its first chairman, and during its twenty
years duration some hundreds of pounds were dispensed in relieving the sickness,
and providing for the funerals of its members. . . . the society was dissolved
in 1860, through want of funds, and the money in hand divided amongst its
remaining members. … At the old concert-rooms of a higher order, such as
Evan's, the Coal Hole, Offley's, and the Cider Cellars, the singing was always
unaccompanied by music, and the first attempt to introduce a piano at Evans's
created quite a revolution among the old habitués, though its use in filling up
interval with lively music was soon admitted. Gentleman amateurs at all these
places, struck in now and then with favourite songs, and even the professionals
mingled with the general audience.
The original entertainment at Evan's was exceedingly
primitive; Mr. Evans sat in the chair, surrounded by a few of his most staunch
supporters, occasionally obliging them with his favourite song, the Pope he
leads a Happy Life; Messrs. Matthews, James and Bailey, the glee singers, sat a
little below him on the left; Tom Martin, the comic singer, was among the
visitors at the centre table; and Charles Sloman, the celebrated English
improvisatore, and Herr Von Joel, the wondrous imitator of the feathered race,
were seated in different parts of the comfortable old room, ready to respond
when called upon; the whole thing being as unprofessional as can be imagined. No
charge was made for admission - no persons were admitted unless suitably attired
- no money was taken for anything supplied until you were coming away, and his
must have been, indeed, a clear intellect that could keep pace with, or dispute
the reckoning of the head-waiter, who stood sternly at the door, and announced
the sum total to those departing.
Whether the modern music-hall, with its gilt and colours, is
any real improvement on those old public-house haunts, it is difficult to say.
There is less open grossness, it is true, and less drinking; but the songs, if
not so objectionable, are, for the most part, very foolish and inane, and the
dangerous gymnastic feats and second-rate dancing, which now-a-days occupy such
prominent places in the music-hall programme, are neither amusing nor edifying.
However that may be, it is certain that the old-fashioned concert-room is gone,
never to return.
All the Year Round, Dec. 20th, 1873