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airwaves in November, the company was
squeezed into a single room in Magnet
House, just off London’s Kingsway. Every
evening, when it was time for the day’s
broadcasting to begin, Lewis, Burrows and
their colleagues would have to dash down to
the Aldwych and scurry up to the top floor
of Marconi House, where a small box room
had been kitted out with a piano and
microphone. For now, this was the home
of 2LO, the “London” station. Two more
stations in Birmingham and Manchester,
5IT and 2ZY, muddled along in similarly
cramped conditions.
The wholesale move of
the company headquarters
and London operation to
a larger building just off
the Strand the follow-
ing year allowed
broadcasters to spread
their wings a little.
Savoy Hill offered
enough space for
a decent-sized general
office, separate rooms
for senior staff, a modesttelephone exchange and several new studios.
Even so, conditions were basic. Rats ran
through the warren of corridors. The
Thames ran nearby, emitting its noxious
reek. And the heavy drapes with which the
studios were soundproofed created a dusty,
overheated airlessness.
Yet for the BBC’s rapidly growing staff,
Savoy Hill was a thrilling place to work.
It was bursting with energy, bustling with
ambition, and free – for the moment – of the
weight of tradition or routine. Programmes- short skits, book readings, brief musical
recitals, the occasional talk or lecture- were always live, frequently
unrehearsed, and sometimes
required back-room staff to
fill in at the microphone.
For Children’s Hour,
- were always live, frequently
Cecil Lewis, one of the BBC’s
founding executives, c1924.
He was determined to add to
“the wisdom and beauty of the
world” rather than destroy itArthur Burrows would turn into “Uncle
Arthur” and Cecil Lewis would become
“Uncle Caractacus”.
Small house orchestras were squeezed
into sweltering studios, and BBC engineers
would set out with cables and microphones to
“relay” opera from Covent Garden or dance
bands playing at the Savoy Hotel. The arts of
writing for the ear, studio sound effects and
running sports commentary all steadily
emerged from the chaos.Idealists and dilettantes
Most programmes were simple affairs, with
the occasional attempt at something more
spectacular. In 1928, the producer Lance
Sieveking attempted to recreate the kind of
modernist art he enjoyed in avant-garde
novels and expressionist cinema. His pro-
gramme, The Kaleidoscope, was a dazzlingly
multi-layered montage of dramatic scenes,
music and readings that tied up all seven of
Savoy Hill’s studios at once – and left most
listeners utterly bewildered.
Sieveking saw his job as akin to that
of a medieval craftsman set free to carve
gargoyles to his heart’s content. In a buildingGoing live $$%UVCʘKP5CXQ[*KNN
in 1932. “Programmes were always live,
frequently unrehearsed, and sometimes
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microphone,” writes David Hendy