Moreover, Donegan, short, thin, ostentatiously workingclass and British, was ‘one of us’ – if he could do it, so could everyone. And then there was the simple rush of the tune, and the wild, whooping triumph in its chorus. The skiffle craze was sparked. As has been many times remarked, ‘We owe it all to Lonnie Donegan.’ The principle was simple. If you wanted rhythm, you scraped a washboard; if a double bass, then you strung a washing line to a sweeping brush and rammed it into a tea chest. If you couldn’t afford a guitar, you could surely get a banjo. A comb-and-paper kazoo could serve for a harmonica, and puffing into a jug created a sound not unlike a tuba. In short, you could create such music on your own.
Skiffle itself might have died without issue. The sound was thin and scratchy, and the ease with which it could be played made it restrictive for serious talents. That it did not die is in some part due to a man nicknamed ‘Dr Death’, whose real name was Paul Lincoln. On 22 April 1956, he and Ray Hunter refounded a club in Old Compton Street as a coffee bar, ‘The 2i’, with a music venue downstairs. There was little or no seating. The tiny stage for the musicians was built from milk crates and planks. Even the microphone had been a relic of the Boer War. Performers were paid, so the legend ran, in coffee and Coca-Cola, and alcohol was not served. Skiffle could not have wished for a warmer cradle. It did not last long into the succeeding decade, and in this it was typical of the coffee bar boom. Espresso bars still flourished, but no longer as conduits of musical talent. They would never die, but they would have to adapt.
38
North and south
On 8 October 1959, the Conservatives under Macmillan won the election by 365 seats to Labour’s 258. The unofficial campaign slogan was ‘We’ve Never Had It So Good’. Macmillan had proved himself worthy – now he had only to make ‘it’ even better, whatever ‘it’ was. He had beguiled and persuaded the nation by virtue of his Edwardian charm, but he remained in certain respects a little-known figure.
‘A born rebel’ was how Lloyd George described the young Macmillan. The young of Sixties England might have found it hard to spot a rebel in their prime minister, but those living further afield would not have been surprised. By 1960, decolonization was already underway, but the process had been halting. Macmillan had always believed in the nascent strength of the smaller Commonwealth nations, and on 6 January he reaffirmed this in a speech in Ghana. The choice of location was deliberate: Ghana had won its freedom by peaceful means, its new leader following the example of Gandhi. This, coupled with the sobering examples of chaos and bloodshed in former French and Portuguese possessions, led the shrewd and compassionate Macmillan to conclude that empire could not coexist with African nationalism.
This speech passed largely unnoticed, but when he repeated its central points in the parliament of apartheid South Africa, the world took note. After thanking the relevant dignitaries, Macmillan proceeded: ‘At such a time it is natural and right that you should pause to take stock of your position – to look back at what you have achieved, and to look forward to what lies ahead.’ The tone was that of a kindly headmaster sending his boys off into the wider world, and was received as such. However, his next observation garnered him a good-natured laugh. ‘This afternoon I hope to see something of your wine-growing industry, which so far I have only admired as a consumer.’
The following section could have been received as a polite nothing, but for the more attentive there was a bite beneath: ‘We in Britain are proud of the contribution we have made to this remarkable achievement. Much of it has been financed by British capital.’ He praised the South African contribution to the two world wars, saying, ‘As a soldier, I know personally the value of the contribution your forces made to victory in the cause of freedom. I know something too of the inspiration which General Smuts brought to us in Britain in our darkest hours.’ The reference to Smuts, a hero of Anglo-South African relations but no friend of apartheid, would not have been missed. Then came the sweetener: ‘Today, your readiness to provide technical assistance to the less well-developed parts of Africa is of immense help to the countries that receive it.’ At last, he moved to the image for which the speech would be remembered. South Africa, he said, was ready ‘to play your part in the new Africa of today … Ever since the break-up of the Roman Empire, one of the constant facts of political life in Europe has been the emergence of independent nations … Today the same thing is happening in Africa, and the most striking of all the impressions that I have formed since I left London a month ago is of the strength of this African national consciousness.’ Macmillan’s voice rose in declamation as he rapped the lectern. ‘The wind of change is blowing through this continent. And whether we like it or not, this growth of national consciousness is a political fact. And we must all accept it as a fact, and our national policies must take account of it.’
There was silence in the hall at this blasphemy. But Macmillan, the consummate performer, was prepared. His message, if not his tone, became unctuous. ‘Of course you understand this better than anyone; you are sprung from Europe, the home of nationalism. And here in Africa you have yourselves created a new nation. Indeed in the history of our times you will be recorded as the first of the African nationalists.’ It was a masterly performance – this was logic not so much employed as deployed. And with his most resonant image behind him, Macmillan came to the true point. ‘We may sometimes be tempted to say “Mind your own business”. But in these days I would expand the old saying, so that it runs, “Mind your own business, but mind how it affects my business, too.”’
For of course, if South Africa continued along its present course, mayhem would be the result. Macmillan concluded with what may best be described as a sermon.
Our aim has been … not only to raise the material standards of life, but to create a society which respects the rights of individuals – a society in which men are given the opportunity to grow to their full stature. And that must in our view include the opportunity of an increasing share in political power and responsibility; a society in which individual merit, and individual merit alone, is the criterion for a man’s advancement, whether political or economic … Those of us who by the grace of the electorate are temporarily in charge of affairs in my country and yours, we fleeting transient phantoms of history, we have no right to sweep aside on this account the friendship that exists between our countries.
Rarely has one speech had such an influence. In its aftermath, South Africa fulfilled the ugliest expectations of the world first by committing the Sharpeville Massacre and next by withdrawing from the Commonwealth altogether. By the end of Macmillan’s tenure, the fourteen colonies of Africa had been granted independence and reduced to four. Macmillan had won many friends for Britain abroad – in the United States, the UN and in Africa itself.
And Macmillan needed all his friends, for the ranks of his critics were swelling. Recalling a broadcast by the prime minister, Malcolm Muggeridge observed unkindly:
He seemed, in his very person, to embody the national decline he supposed himself to be confuting. He exuded a flavour of mothballs. His decaying visage and somehow seedy attire conveyed the impression of an ageing and eccentric clergyman who had been induced to play the prime minister in the dramatized version of a Snow novel put on by a village amateur dramatic society.
Nevertheless, Macmillan could boast of many admirers. While his cabinet was composed overwhelmingly of public schoolboys and while his family connections stretched from Westminster to Chatsworth House, he had a fan in a tall, saturnine young student with a fondness for sweaters by the name of Peter Cook. With Jonathan Miller, Dudley Moore and Alan Bennett, Cook formed the ‘Beyond the Fringe’ group. Unlike the Goons before them, they derived their humour not from caricature but from observation. They performed with almost no set beyond a piano. The target appeared to be what was becoming known as ‘the establishment’, and yet their humour had always a samizdat quality in its ironical deference. In one sketch of 1961, Peter Cook played the prime minister in a spoof party-political broadcast. His meandering, deadpan delivery was uncanny. Such satire was addressed at a persona, of course, but this persona was itself a role that Macmillan assumed. It was a success. Intransigent foe and improbable allies were to be swayed by it.