16 
LAND 6? WATER 
September 12, 1918 
The Theatre: By W. J. Turner 
At a Music Hall 
FEELING very ill from the effects of a spy play the 
night before, I determined yesterday to go to one 
of those music-haUs that lie in the shady regions 
l)et\veen the West End and the suburbs, and 
recover. Owing to some little delay in finding my 
meat-coupon at dinner, I did not arrive at the selected 
"palace" until the second house was already on the way. 
I asked for a stall, and, tendering a ten-shilling note I had 
taken a dislike to from the way the waiter had bitten it, 
I received eight and threepence change. I was told that 
there was not a stall vacant just then, but that there might 
be at any moment. Evidently, I thought, people come in . 
here just to sit down for a few minutes, and the object is to 
drive them out again as quickly as possible. This was 
hardly a cheering idea ; but I took the ticket and fought 
my way along a narrow passage, through some swing doors, 
and into the stalls. I say into the stalls, but that was mere 
assumption on my part, for all I could see was the backs of 
necks. Not being able to see the stage, and not having 
a paper, I took out my theatre-ticket to read ; there was 
something printed on it, I could see ; but it was impossible 
to make it out in that imitation light, so I managed to kill a 
few minutes borrowing a match. One or two of the people 
I asked seemed to resent being interrupted ; but I got one 
at last, and, striking it, read: "Buy National War Bonds 
at once." Of course, I put it back, and resumed my steady 
stare into my neighbour's neck. Presently some old lady, 
remembering that she had left a pot on the gas at home, 
got up from her stall with a yell, and dived for the door. 
I at once leapt into the upholstered seat, and sat down. 
I found a tortoiseshell comb on my lap ; evidently I had 
gathered it in my gradual progression to my seat. Not 
knowing what to do with it, I stuck it into the hair of a lady 
in front of nve, and gave my whole attention to the stage. 
It was number 9 on the bill, though the second house had 
not long begun ; the show ended with nimiber i. I heard 
a man in the next row say that this is done to confuse German 
spies. Be that as it may, number g consisted of a girl at a 
piano in a pink frock and a man in evening dress. The girl 
was trying to smile bewitchingly at the man, and the man 
was trying to look funny ; neither succeeded — at least, not 
while I was there. He then sang a comic song about the 
end of a perfect day, and showed his teeth. Nobody hooted 
him, so, greatly encouraged, he went on ; ultimately 
he went off. I took this man to be a comedian ; but it 
appears I did him an injustice, for, as the curtain was going 
down, I felt that my left ankle was wet. At first, I thought 
that my stall might be poised over some pond that had been 
forgotten when the theatre was built, but, looking up, I saw 
that tears were dropping from my neighbour's eyes. I can 
hardly think it was private domestic grief, for it ceased as 
soon as the next number started. It was very embarrassing 
while it lasted because, being naturally of an affectionate 
disposition, I wanted to comfort her. Luckily, there was no 
mistake about the next man, who was down on the bill as 
"The Frisky Lad." He was quite an amusing bird, in a 
mild sort of ,way, with long yellow hair, which he told us 
hprses always mistook for straw. I laughed heartily at this ; 
I do not know why. ,He carried the handleof a walking- 
stitk ; the rest of it, he said, he had lent to some ohe. After 
prancing about the stage, he sang the following song : 
Mary had a little Iamb who followed her all day. 
And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to pay, 
And when she'd gathered all his wool she sent the lamb away, 
And now she's got another leg of mutton so they say. 
This is the sort of song that everybody seems to understand. 
I looked at my neighbour to see whether she would laugh 
or cry ; a tear came into one eye at the thought of the little 
lamb that was sent away, but, happily, the leg of mutton 
wiped away the tear. We came now to number 7 .which was 
down on the bill as "Intermezzo." A fat man, a man with 
plenty of mezzo, crawled laboriously from out of a heap of 
music-stands in the orchestra, and painfully made his way 
to the conductor's seat. He had two hairs brushed carefully 
across the top of his head, and a black moustache. He waved 
one fat white-gloved hand expressively at a barmaid in a 
box, seized his baton, and placed his other hand, with a 
slight sigh, on his waist, and gave the beat. Perspiring, he 
chased the orchestra through the selection, got up with 
difficulty, bowed, and disappeared. The rest of the orchestra 
vanished as by magic. Music-hall orchestras are all the 
same. They consist of one man, the first fiddle, in evening 
dress ; one man, the drummer, in a dinner jacket and a pair 
of corduroy trousers; another man, generally the flute, in 
brown tweeds ; and the others in dark serge. They always 
look frightfully depressed ; I suppose it is the thought of the 
vast crowd that has paid to get in which depresses them. 
After the Intermezzo came Miss Ethel Levey. Miss Levey 
has some of the qualities of a great music-hall star ; but she 
is often very dull. She excels in character studies 6i a 
brutal Cockney type. One of her songs> "Me and My Girl," 
in which one of these fellows is describing in imagination his 
wedding-day, with the parson waiting for him and all the 
world a mere background for him, was extraordinarily good, 
and almost unbearably repulsive. It was far and away the 
best thing on the programme ; but her second song — some- 
thing about a message from the U.S.A. — was just sham 
patriotic blither. It might have even been made charming, 
sung in a dainty, naive manner, by a young English girl ; 
but was merely dull and ridiculous in the heavy, Oriental 
style of Miss Levey. I suppose Miss Levey's difficulty is in 
getting good, suitable songs. That has always been the 
stumbling-block of the music-hall artist, and I do not think 
I am far wrong in saying that the really first-class music- 
hall star will almost of necessity be the writer of his own 
songs ; if he has to rely on getting them written for him 
he may go years without getting a good one in his particular 
style. The subject of music-hall songs is an interesting one. 
I shall deal with it at length on some future occasion. All 
I wish to point out now is that many good songs have been 
wasted on good artists whose personality they did not suit, 
and that many a song that seemed nothing in itself has 
appeared quite remarkable when the right person has got 
hold of it ; and it is not only a question of the right 'song 
and singer, but also of the right costume and surroundings. 
I am reminded of a story I was told once by a music-hall 
manager of a girl who was engaged by them for a week from 
some provincial hall, and who was to make her first appear- 
ance with them on a Monday night. Late on the Monday 
afternoon she drove up to the office and explained in great 
distress that her luggage had failed to arrive, and with it 
the elaborate costume she always wore for her turn. She 
could not possibly, she said, go on without it. The manager 
told her she would have to appear, if it was only in boots. 
She went on that night in a plain black walking frock, and 
was a huge success ; so great that they put her higher up in 
the bill. The next night, her luggage still not ha\'ing arrived, 
she went on again in the same frock, and repeated her success. . 
On the third night her luggage arrived, and she wore her 
usual elaborate costume ; she was a dead failure. People 
who think that good music, wit, and intelligence are wasted 
on music-hall audiences might well reflect on that story, which 
prove* that subtlety is not by any means lost in a music hall. 
\Vhat kills subtlety, and, in fact, all intelligence, is excessive 
size of building, which makes it impossible ior any artist to 
do himself justice. Places like the Coliseum and the Albert 
Hall are only fit for spectacular shows. At their immense 
distances all faces look alike. Acting is impossible ; you 
can only bellow and knock over chairs. At present, 
some of the best music-halls in the world are in France, at 
the front. Four years of war has done more to educate the 
British public in the Army, musically, than all the fojty 
years that preceded it. No one who has not been there can 
imagine the extraordinary vogue of part-singing. The amount 
of talent is remarkable ; and I was not astonished when I 
discovered that the next turn on my programme was pro- 
vided by a concert party on leave from one of the divisions 
in France. Two men in tin hats, one a sentrj', sang "Watch- 
man, What of the Night ! ", an old-fashioned but pretty 
duet ; this was greatly applauded. At this moment my 
neighbour started weeping again. It gave me rather a shock, 
because some time before she had unwrapped from a pile of 
browTi-paper about a pound of toffee, and I thought she had 
settled down for the night ; however, there she was, with a 
lump of toffee sticking out of one cheek and tears streaming 
down the other. I stuck it as long as I could, but at last my 
native tenderness prevailed. Soothingly, I half stretched out 
my hand, and was about to murmur "My dear madam, is it 
the night or the watchman you are afraid of ? " when, utterly 
mistaking my intention, she pushed a huge lump of sticky 
toffee into the palm of my hand. My heart almost stopped 
beating. Then, furtively,* I went out. 
