A Brief History of the Music Halls, Or: Why Do The Middle Classes Have to Ruin Everything? A Guest Post by Fern Riddell:

The British Music Halls occupied a special place in the history of mass entertainment. They influenced generations of comedians, give birth to the genius of Charlie Chaplin and Stan Laurel, and the singing stars of Vesta Tilley and Gracie Fields. Born out of the pub song and supper rooms of the 1830s, the music halls were officially recognised by the 1843 Theatres Act, setting them aside from the ‘theatre proper’, ballet, and opera. This meant they could be licensed, controlled and regulated by the government.  But in the early days the music halls were not really seen as a controversial space, they were primarily a male dominated space, holding ‘harmonious gatherings’ in places such as Evans Music and Supper Rooms, The Coal Hole and the Cyder Cellars. They were pretty much exactly as stated – a hall for music, attached to a pub. Public houses were everywhere, they occupied the poor, why not allow them to have a hall alongside?

But by 1852 they had evolved into something quite different, something special, something unexpected.

The halls of the 1850s were a new breed. Led by the self-styled ‘Father of the Halls’, Charles Morton, - a title also claimed by the 1844 manager of Evans, Paddy Green - the new music halls were purpose built buildings, seating between 700-1,500 people each night. The Canterbury Music Hall was the first of these, opening in 1852, and then again in 1856, after a significant rebuild to increase seating capacity. Morton built this hall at 143 Westminster Bridge Road, and it signalled the new style of entertainment, specifically for the working classes, in the heart of the city of London. It was a marvel to behold: opulent ceilings, chandeliers and a carpet that had reportedly cost 1000 guineas. The middle classes were shocked, why was Morton going to such expense just to provide entertainment to the masses? Elegant designs and exteriors belonged to those who could afford to have them at home, not just to be visited for pleasure.

But this is where the very core of the entire music hall industry ideal exists. It was a world of fantasy; it attempted to create perfection and sold it to the people who would never have enough money to obtain it. It was the modern day celebrity gossip magazine and reality TV star world rolled into one, and appearing twice nightly just down your road. Historians have argued that the music halls were the first commercial mass entertainment to appear in Britain, they appealed to everyone. In a world that was solely orientated along class and gender lines, the music halls were a place that drew in men and women, old and young, from all walks of life. Until the 1880s they were a primarily working class space, with audiences made up of tradesmen, clerks and the occasional ‘toff ‘or ‘swell’ looking to rough it amongst the common people. Through topical songs they kept their audience informed of parliamentary bills, changes in the geographical landscape of London, political intrigues, as well as domestic relationships and trials. The songs were witty, clever, and occasionally stolen from the poetry of the greats like Byron or Keats. Above all, they educated their audience about their rights and situation. And this was viewed as highly dangerous.

By the later half of the nineteenth century, there were over 300 music halls licensed in London alone. Syndicated groups began to appear, opening music halls in towns and resorts across the country, and later the world. Their influence over the tastes and ideas of their audience was unlike anything that had ever been seen before. National stars were created, Marie Lloyd, Mark Sheridan and Little Tich all represented the ‘true working class’ and packed houses to the roof night after night.

Marie Lloyd Singing 'A Coster Girl in Paris'

This combination of mass congregation and the popular masses was too much of a threat to the intellectual elites, who watched in horror as, across the water, the European working classes began to replace and rebel against their former masters. Keen to stop any social unrest from occurring in Britain, the elites and middle classes managed to take hold of the one weapon that could have radicalised and revolutionised the British working class – the music halls.

Through a steady process of regulation, and subversive tactics of a slow alteration to song topics – goodbye political information, hello ‘Ere, ‘e’s got an awful big carrot in ‘is barraaa’ *wink* *nudge nudge* - the music halls altered from an expression of the working classes, to a middle class stereotype of working class character. This happened slowly over a period of about twenty years, from the 1870s to the 1890s. Previous historians often lay the blame on a capitalist-driven social-climbing management, who bowed to the new measures – less alcohol, no prostitutes, no innuendo - to insure a higher paying audience. The halls themselves altered, getting rid of their promenades – even though this resulted in vandalism by the patrons, including a young Winston Churchill – and seating 5000 people in grand buildings more like cathedrals than the simple churches of entertainment from the 1850s. Electricity came in to replace the dangerous gas lighting and the ‘Palaces of Variety’ were born.

Harry Champion Singing 'I'm Henry the Eighth I Am'

But while this social manipulation took hold, there was one area of the music halls that saw little alteration, and that was in its performers. They came from the true working class: singers, contortionists, illusionists, acrobats, comic duos, dancers, animal tamers, trick cyclists, and ballet girls. The music hall bills were a combination and mutation of every form of entertainment you could think of.

John Davidson’s 1891 poem, In a Music Hall, gives some idea of the audience’s attraction to the halls:

“I did as my desk fellows did;

With a pipe and a tankard of beer,

In a music hall, rancid and hot,

I lost my soul night after night.

It is better to lose one’s soul,

Than to never stake it at all.”

In the early days, a bill would consist of 9-10 acts, of differing appeals with a Chairman, who sat on stage, sometimes in almost a grand throne, and acted as general overseer and organiser of the night’s entertainment. Mid-way through the changes, and certainly by the late 1880s, the role and office of Chairman had almost totally died out, the tables that had filled the auditorium had been removed, and a pit for the musicians had been created, but the bills remained the same.

And so did the pay and situation between artists, agents and mangers. By 1907, it was the artists who were really suffering. The long hours, contracts that would ban you from working within a ten-mile radius of any hall for six months after an appearance, and little pay had taken their toll. The acts went on strike. The ‘Music Hall War’ affected performers across the industry, from the highest paid stars to those scraping a living. The formation of unions such as the Variety Artists Federation (which went on to become Equity) show that the industry had begun to regulate itself, inside as well as for outside appearances. The success of the campaign was another demonstration of how far the music halls had come from their working class origins. And this was no more apparent than at the first Royal Variety Show (yeah, it’s from the music halls!) in 1912, then called the Royal Command Performance.

I recently watched a BBC documentary with Julian Fellows proclaiming that the attendance of Royalty at the show signified just how close to the people the King and Queen had become, how much they felt a kinship with their subjects and how greatly they enjoyed it when Vesta Tilley appeared on the stage. They didn’t. It may have been a good piece of public relations, but when Vesta Tilly appeared on stage, in her male attire and began to sing, Queen Alexandria was so shocked that she turned her face away and ordered the entire court to do the same. If anything, this single moment signifies just how great the social divide still was between the monarchy and the attitudes and beliefs of the common people. But here they all were, brought together under the banner of the music halls.

So what happened to the music halls? Where did this brilliantly inclusive and entertaining for of theatre seem to die out? Traditionalist historians say it was with the advent of the First World War, and the combined threat of cinema and radio. Revision historians disagree, the halls evolved to incorporate both these new forms of media, creating ‘cine-variety shows’ and live performances on the BBC. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s new music halls were still being built and acts achieving international success. It is clear though, that the one threat it could not survive was television. Even ‘Saturday Night At The London Palladium’ became the last vestige of a dying art form. One of the most poignant films to capture this sense of loss was by one of the most famous stars of the music halls. Charlie Chaplin’s Limelight, (1952), has an overwhelming ache for times gone by, and performances past.

Charlie Chaplin's 1952 film 'Limelight'

So there you are, a brief history of the music halls. And this is just the short version; I haven’t talked about the prostitutes, the serial killers, the spies, the alcohol or any of the other equally fascinating and exciting parts of its history. There isn’t enough time to cover everything. But the next time you hear a stand up comedian, or watch a new avant-garde comic duo, remember that without the music halls, they would never have existed. The legacy of the halls echoes through time, and deserves far more attention than we currently seem to give.

Fern Riddell is a PhD Student exploring Religion, Sexuality and Crime in London's Music Halls from 1850 - 1939. Follow her on Twitter @FernRiddell and for more on the curiosities of Victorian entertainment get yourself over to her blog at viceandvirtue.posterous.com (some content may not be suitable for those of a stereotypical ‘Victorian’ constitution!)

‘A Little of What You Fancy’ Or: Exploring the Life in Victorian Dancehalls & Theatres

An aspect of the 19^th century that interests me is that of ‘celebrity’ and how new breeds of celebrity were born. In an age where books, newspapers and magazines (not like the magazine’s of today – more like newspapers) were the only media in peoples homes, the ‘celebrities’ were authors such as Dickens and Wilkie Collins who would give readings of their books, engineers such as Bazalgette and Brunel, the royal family themselves, artists and the like.

However, as the century wore on theatrical entertainment expanded from fusty old men acting Shakespeare and carriages pulling up outside a foreign Opera, which were very much middle and upper class persuits. Entertainment came to those closer to the bottom rung of the social ladder, and it came in the shape of the dance hall, which provided comical entertainment for all with comedic actors and actresses and light hearted musical ditties.

Was this the birth of modern day celebrity culture? In my short time as a ‘Victorianist’ I have yet to scratch the surface of the Victorian entertainment industry, (save for a blog post I did on the comedian Dan Leno, which you can read here) But its an area of the era that I have always found interesting, particularly from the point of view of the actresses who, in an era where women were, in many ways, inferior to men, appeared to be accepted on stage

With that in mind, I decided to choose two quite different Victorian actresses as my starting point, one for each side of the acting coin I have described above, and will allow them to escort me into this interesting topic.

Our hostesses are, first, one of the era’s finest Shakespearian actresses Ellen Terry, and second, ‘Lewd’ music hall star Marie Lloyd.

Ellen Terry (February 27, 1847 – July 21, 1928)

Ellen Terry aged 16; By Julia Margaret Cameron

Ellen Terry was born in Coventry into a theatrical family. Her parents, Benjamin Terry and Sarah Ballard had eleven children, five of which; Florence, Fred, Kate, Marion and of course, Ellen, went on to become actors, and two of which; George and Charles, went into theatre management. Ellen’s brother Charles would later father two daughters who would also appear on the stage, Minnie and Beatrice.

Ellen began acting as a child in Shakespeare plays with her first appearance on stage coming at the tender age of 8, when she appeared opposite Charles Kean as Mamillius in ‘The Winter's Tale’ at London's Princess's Theatre in 1856. She also played the roles of young Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night's Dream’ in 1856, Prince Arthur in ‘King John’ two years later, and Fleance in ‘Macbeth’ in 1859. That same year, Kean retired, and Ellen went on to appear in the comedy ‘Nine Points of the Law’, by Tom Taylor, at the Olympic Theatre. She was 12 years of age. For the next two years, she toured with her sister, Kate, performing sketches and plays with their parents and a musician.

Between 1861 and 1862, Ellen was engaged by the Royalty Theatre in London, managed by Madame Albina de Rhona, where she acted with W. H. Kendal, Charles Wyndham and other famous actors.

In 1862, she and her sister Kate joined J. H. Chute's stock company at the Theatre Royal in Bristol, where Ellen played a wide variety of parts, including burlesque roles requiring singing and dancing, as well as roles in ‘Much Ado about Nothing’, ‘Othello’ and ‘A Merchant of Venice’. 

In 1863, Chute opened the Theatre Royal in Bath, where Terry, now aged 15, appeared at the opening as Titania in ‘A Midsummer Night's Dream’ and then returned to London to join J. B. Buckstone's company at the Haymarket Theatre in both Shakespearean and modern comedic roles.

As a teen, Ellen continued acting in London and on tour. At age 16 In London, during a run at the Haymarket Theatre, Ellen and her sister Kate met, and had their portrait painted by the artist, George Frederick Watts. The artistic lifestyle of Watts made a big impression on Ellen, and in February 1864, shortly before her 16th birthday, she married him. Watts was 46.

Ellen gave up acting during her marriage to Watts, but the marriage was unhappy as neither she nor her husband were able to remain faithful and they separated after 10 months of marriage.

She returned to acting for a short time, but then began a relationship with the man with whom she had been unfaithful whilst married to Watts - the architect Edward William Godwin. During their affair Ellen had become pregnant with Godwin’s child. In 1872, when she was aged 25, Ellen gave birth to Edward Gordon Craig.

After the birth of Edward, she retired from the stage for six years and retreated to Hertfordshire with Godwin and their son, but their relationship ended in 1874, and she returned to acting.

Upon her return, Ellen was praised and received critical acclaim for her work in Shakespeare and other classics.

In 1878 she joined Henry Irving's company as his leading lady, and for more than twenty years she was considered to be the leading Shakespearean and comic actress in Britain.

Two of her most famous roles were Portia in ‘The Merchant of Venice’ and Beatrice in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’. She and Henry Irving also toured with great success in America and Britain.

In 1903 Ellen took over management of London's Imperial Theatre, but the venture was a financial failure. Ellen then toured and later also lectured.

In 1916, at the age of 69, she appeared in her first film as Julia Lovelace in ‘Her Greatest Performance’, and she maintained a successful stage acting career until 1920, and also appeared in films until 1922. Her career lasted almost 70 years.

In 1925 Ellen was made a Dame Grand Cross of the Order of the British Empire, only the second actress to receive the honour. In her later years she gradually went blind and suffered from senility.

On July 21, 1928, Ellen died of a cerebral haemorrhage at her home in Kent, at the age of 81. Her ashes lie in a silver chalice in St Paul's Church, Covent Garden, London. Her son, Edward Gordon Craig, went on to become an important actor, designer, and director. He married May Gibson and they had four children but his long term lover was the dancing legend Isadora Duncan. They had a daughter together, Deirdre who was tragically killed aged 7 by drowning in the Seine. Her grand nephew, Sir John Gielgud, also became an actor. 

The singer Helen Terry and illustrator Helen Craig are also descendants of hers.

Stephen Coleridge anonymously published Terry's second autobiography, The Heart of Ellen Terry in 1928.

Marie Lloyd (12 February 1870 – 7 October 1922)

Marie Lloyd was born Matilda Alice Victoria Wood on February 12th 1870 in Hoxton, London as the eldest of nine children. Her father, John Wood, was an artificial flower maker, and part-time waiter at the Royal Eagle Tavern. His wife, Matilda, was a largely independent woman and dressmaker.

As soon as she was old enough, Marie began helping her mother with dress-making and in her spare time organized her sisters and friends into a performing group called the Fairy Bells Minstrels - 'minstrel' groups being extremely popular in the 1870’s and 1880’s. The Fairy Bells toured the local mission halls with an act preaching the evils of drink - an ironic beginning to a career which ended with Marie staggering in simulated drunkeness on the stage singing "It’s a Bit of a Ruin That Cromwell Knocked About a Bit”. ‘The evils of drink’ would also go on to play a cruel role in her personal life.

After working at a handful of menial jobs, the larger-than-life Marie quickly grew bored and decided that she would pursue a career on stage. Her first appearance was in 1886 at “The Grecian" under the stage name of Bella Delamare, where the 16 year old Marie sang two songs; a ballad called ‘Time is Flying’ and ‘My Soldier Lassie’. The gig ended with Marie dancing an Irish jig which, in her own words: 'went down immense'.

From this crowd-pleasing turn Marie earned a trial performance at the Belmont Music Hall in Hackney Road, followed by a week's worth of shows there, for which she received the huge sum of £15 per week. She began to perform at small halls, two or three in a night, and became an almost overnight success. She channged her name from Bella Delamare to Marie Lloyd; the 'Marie' being chosen because it was thought to be 'classy' – where Lloyd came from, nobody seems to know!

Within a year Marie was earning good money and had met a man named Percy Courtenay, to whom she got married on November 12th 1887. Percy was 25 and Marie 17, (although she lied about her age on the marriage certificate and said that she was 18.)

Marie and Percy lived very comfortably in a nice house in Lewisham, existing almost solely on Marie’s wages from her stage work as Percy had no regular job other than occasional touting at various race tracks. Despite Marie giving birth to a baby daughter whom they named after Marie’s mother, Matilda, their marriage hit the rocks when Percy began drinking heavily and treating Marie badly.

By 1893 they were living all but separate lives. Percy, however, did not wish to let Marie – or her money – go, and would constantly show up at her performances and attempt to get backstage. In the end, she notified the police, telling them she felt threatened by him. Percy was arrested, and in court, the Magistrate found against him. Their marriage ended in 1894.
Whilst her private life was less than happy, Marie's career went from strength to strength. Between 1891 and 1893 she performed in pantomime at Drury Lane with the great comedian Dan Leno and was a great success.

Her first major success in the music hall was ‘The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery’, with which she quickly became one of the most famous of English music hall singers. Her performances mirrored, and poked fun at, the disappointments of life, especially for working-class and poor women.

Marie’s songs, although harmless, antiquated and even charming by today’s standards, began to gain a reputation for being ‘racy’ and filled with clever double entendres. This was largely down to the way she sang them with a knowing wink and a smile and the odd gesture which created a conspiratorial relationship with the audience. Her ability to add lewdness to the most innocent of lyrics led to frequent complaints from the stereotypically Victorian morality groups who blamed her, and artists like her for many of society’s ills. She became the target of Vigilance committees, who, along with other voices for morality and abstinence opposed music halls, and had succeeded in closing down institutions such as Cremorne Gardens.

Marie liked to claim that any immorality or lewdness was in the minds of those making the complaints, and in front of these groups would sing her songs straight faced, without the gestures or winks to show their supposed innocence. In one famous incident, she was summoned before one of these committees and asked to sing her songs. She sang them "Oh! Mr. Porter" and "A Little of What you Fancy", in such a sweet and innocent way, that when she had finished, the committee could not back up any of their claims.

However, for her third number she sang the popular and innocent drawing room ballad ’Come into the Garden Maud’. She made the cozy song – which had probably been sung after dinner parties in many of the committee members’ own drawing rooms – her own, by giving such an obscene rendition that the committee was shocked into silence.

On another occasion, when the moralists objected to her song ‘I sits among the cabbages and peas’, which, when performed, made it clear that ‘peas’ referred to urinating, she changed the lyrics to ‘I sits among the cabbages and leeks’ to the roars of laughter of her adoring audience, who still recognized the reference (a leak being a colloquialism for urinating)

Marie first appeared in America in1897 at the age of 27, where her "blue" reputation preceded her. In an interview in the New York Telegraph she defended herself, saying:

“They don't pay their sixpences and shillings at a music hall to hear the Salvation Army. If I was to try to sing highly moral songs, they would fire ginger beer bottles and beer mugs at me. I can't help it if people want to turn and twist my meanings.”
—Marie Lloyd, New York Telegraph

When she returned to England Marie met and fell in love with the singer Alec Hurley and in 1901 they went to Australia, where they performed on stage together with tremendous success. She and Alec had lived together for four years before Percy Courtenay finally divorced her in 1905. She and Alec were married the following year.

Shortly afterwards came the Music Hall Strike. This strike was called by the smaller artists who, because of changes in their contracts, found themselves giving extra performances for no extra pay. Marie, being a big name, commanded whatever fee and terms she pleased but, despite her own success, she supported other performers and contributed generously to the Strike Fund.
Marie was noted for her generosity and had paid nightly for 150 beds for the homeless and destitute of London and for boots for small barefoot children who clustered round the stage door.

The Music Hall Strike ended in success for the performers, but the Managers of the theatres took this defeat bitterly, and in later years would take their revenge on Marie…

By 1910 Marie and Alec’s marriage was becoming more and more unhappy, thanks in no small part to Marie meeting – and falling in love with – young Irish jockey Bernard Dillon. He was 22 and Marie was 40 and in no time Marie had left Alec and moved in with Bernard. A year later, after the Jockey Club revoked Dillon's license, his career was finished and he, like her first husband, Percy, turned to drink.

On top of this blow came the moment the theatre managers had been waiting for; the first Royal Command Performance was held in 1912 and was especially for the artists of the Music Hall.
The list of artists chosen to perform was released, but there was one glaring omission: Marie Lloyd.
She waited in vain for her name to be added to the list and then, on the day of the performance, pluckily staged her own show at the London Pavilion, with printed strips stuck on the posters bearing the defiant slogan ‘Every Performance by Marie Lloyd is a Command Performance’ and ‘By Order of the British Public’.

The following year, in 1913, Marie undertook a six month tour of America with her beau, Bernard. Despite not being married, (indeed, Marie was still married to Alec Hurley) they traveled as Mr. and Mrs. Dillon. Upon being questioned when they arrived in America by an immigration officer, this fact was discovered and they were refused entry to the United States.

The next morning, Marie and Bernard – along with several lawyers, attended an enquiry in which she was told that both she and Bernard would be deported for 'moral turpitude' and held on Ellis Island until the ship 'Olympic' sailed back to England on the following Saturday.
On the Friday, she and Bernard boarded the ship prepared to return to England, but on the Saturday morning, just as they were about to sail, word came that they would be allowed to stay if Marie gave bail of £600 and they stayed in separate hotels.

Two months later, in the middle of Marie’s tour of America, her real husband, Alec Hurley died, and Marie married Bernard at the British Consulate in Portland, Oregon. Once again, Marie lied about her age on the marriage certificate; stating her age as 37. She was 44, Bernard was 29.

During the First World War, like most music hall artists, Marie supported recruitment for the army. The music hall bills often contained the addendum of a recruitment speech in order to drum up interest, with shows being put on whilst men signed up. During these shows, Marie sang the song ‘I didn't like you much before you joined the army, John, but I do like you, cockie, now you've got your khaki on.’ Which became popular with troops, she also sang in many free concerts for the masses of wounded men returning from the trenches.

As the years passed Bernard’s drinking became heavier and, as history repeated itself for the Queen of the Music Halls, her husband began to beat her. Marie herself then began drinking, and the situation worseded until in 1920 Bernard was charged with assaulting Marie's father. The couple then separated.

From then on Marie disintegrated. She still worked but it became more and more difficult to get her on to the stage in time. Her voice became weak and her act shorter and shorter.
On 4th October 1922, at the age of 52, Marie Lloyd was appearing at the Empire Music Hall in Edmonton, London and the last song in her act was her famous ‘It’s a Bit of a Ruin That Cromwell Knocked About a Bit’.
During the performance she staggered about on the stage as the audience laughed at her mock drunken antics. She fell to the floor to the sound of uproarious cheers. Marie had if fact collapsed.
She died three days later. Her funeral on 12 October 1922 was attended by more than 100,000 people.

The Queen of the Music Hall 'Our Marie' as she was affectionately known, was gone, and she took the music hall with her. In the late twenties and early thirties, attendances to the now seemingly outdated form of entertainment waned.

 Reading the poignant stories about the lives of Ellen Terry and Marie Lloyd – two quite different, and yet, in many ways, quite similar women – for the purpose of writing these pieces has, I think, given me a great starting point on the subject of Victorian entertainment, particularly the dance hall.

If anyone can recommend further reading on this subject then all suggestions would be welcome.