They were unlikely early libbers, the Grey Ladies’ Orchestra, Edna Croudson’s Rhythm Girls, the Grosvenor Ladies’ Quintette and the other all-women groups. Preserved only in sepia postcards, sent from spas and seasides where the sun always shone, the costumes of the players – boas, top hats, knee-breeches, and impossibly demure white frocks – are at odds with the seriousness suggested by the instruments: violins, clarinets, trumpets, and even drums.
Now almost extinct, bands made up exclusively of women were an early tilt towards sexual equality in a part of the entertainment world stoutly dominated by men. Actresses, female acrobats or impersonators, and singers of arias or street ballads, were sanctioned by the Victorians. But the all-women orchestras, which seem to have started around 1890, were perplexing. Were they serious musicians, or were they show-girls? Their enigma was part of the attraction that endured for decades.
The women certainly could play. It was not such a long step from the drawing-room to the platform if you were a pianist. But for a woman to stand up and tootle, or to strum a banjo caused, in the swinging twenties, a frisson. The ravenous demands of the music ball helped; so did two wars which drained away male players from orchestra pits and big band musicians from the stage. But there were obstacles. The ‘Musicians’ Union was at times hostile to increased job opportunities for women players; and for a long time females were paid much less than their male counterparts.
That forgotten corner of the women’s movement is recalled by a very old lady, who was part of it. Greta Kent was born into a musical family in 1895 and her book, A View From the Bandstand (Sheba Feminist Publications, published this week, £3.95) is leaves from her family album, showing the principal occupation of herself, her mother and numerous aunts and cousins: they were the girls in the bands.
Palm courts, pavilions, concert platforms; even Joe Lyons’s first Corner House (in the Strand, opened in 1909) had to have a women’s group. They were, says Mrs Kent, all trained musicians, all with a living to earn, or with a husband’s wage to supplement, if they were married with children as she herself was. And yet, though she does not admit it in her account, there was a hint of naughtiness: the photographs confirm it; leg of mutton sleeves and, when the fashion was for light buxomness, leg of mutton ankles as well.
Once they got into costume and went abroad, a sort of virtuous sauciness characterised some of the groups. Three of Mrs Kent’s aunts, Viola, Mina, and Hilda, joined a rather classy ensemble, the Biseras, named after the couple who ran it. They played in casinos and concert halls. “In one theatre in Germany,” Mrs Kent recalls, “it was discovered that through some error in the contract the troupe was expected to entertain gentlemen after the last performance. The suggestion was absurd, and angry scenes followed.” You bet.
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