NOISES IN THE. ATTIC

New Zealand Listener, Volume 1, Issue 24, 8 December 1939, Page 8

NOISES IN THE. ATTIC

A Pioneer Of Radio Remembers For "The Listener"

T was in the days when newspapers in New Zealand were only just beginning to display illustrations for their wondering readers. There were no such things as full pages of pictures. Occasionally, when some celebrity talked, or died, or the world turned over, the dailies would secure a photograph and take great pains to ensure the appearance of some sort of smudge in the next day’s issue. Block-making machines in those days were awesome wonders, nothing. like the busy, smooth-run-ning illustration plants which newspapers and printing offices carry to-day as a matter of ordinary equipment. There was one particular machine, housed in the old Dominion building, in Wellington, It gave forth a noise as of excruciating pain every time it did its work. Each time the noise echoed through the building the staff would know that next day some new marvel would appear in print. Others Heard It, Too Not only the staff. In that same building was a tiny attic room housing a pianola, a chair or two, and another wonder of the time — a microphone. The microphone also heard the noise, and if the operator was not very quick, pioneer listeners within the range of 2YK heard it too, and knew to look next day for the picture in the paper. One of those thus let into the secrets of the Fourth Estate was Mrs. F. C. Collins, whose thoughts went back to the first days of radio in New Zealand while she stood the other night and watched proceedings in 2YA’s modern studio at the Exhibition, close to her Lyall Bay home. Back In The Beginning Next to watching her family develop their musical talent, Mrs. Collins best likes playing accompaniments, and it was her flair for following the intricacies of the soloists who first sang over the " wireless"" ’way back in the ’twenties, that gave her entry to the infinitesimal studio where Clive Drummond announced items to the world of radio. It was a small world then, but small as was the studio that served it in such a small beginning, the tiny room contained something which united the performers in an informality and intimacy which is lost now that powerful transmitters serve more than 300,000 licence-holders in the second thickest radio population in the world. Not Much Room Mrs. Collins recalls the curtain-draped cubicle that served as a studio. Heavy cloth deadened the echo of voices and instruments, and the stand-by, the pianola. Sometimes there would be a duet for her to follow, but more usually room could be found only for a_ soloist. In one corner sat the announcer (Clive Drummond using up his spare time). In another was the performer, and there was Mrs. Collins. If the performer was lucky there might be room for a friend or relative to sit by, with others crowded in an ante-room, waiting their turn, quaking in their shoes, and everyone fearing to make the pe Second sound. 33 Mother of Radio "" Mrs. Collins recalls the self-styled "Mother of Radio," a well-known organiser of the early Sunday night " flesh-and-blood " programme session, who sat

with earphones clamped on her head and with a list of performers before her. She had telephoned them during the previous week. Gladly, and interestedly, they had made their services available, without money entering into the arrangement. As they went

on the air she listened critically, ticked their names if they pleased her, or crossed them firmly out if they did not. Mrs. Collins soon became more than an accompanist. Her duties included welcoming strangers, and making them feel at home in the so-very-strange surroundings. There was no lift in the building on Sundays, and they usually arrived at the top of the long flights of dark stairs breathless with effort as well as puffing with excitement. Mrs. Collins assured them, when they arrived, that they really had come to the right place, and took a hand in putting together the details of the programmes, mostly extemporised as the programer" material came up the stairs. -So They Said There was whispering that some day " wireless would be quite a big thing, you know," or that some day "they say there'll be quite a lot of money in it.’ Visitors came from England with tales of much being earned by performers there. There was subdued excitement all the time. What would happen to the new invention? What would the world do with it? Mrs. Collins wondered too. Last week she saw something of what radio had become. But she must still be wondering, for she spoke to The Listener about people who leave their radios turned on to the modern, all-day-all-night service, about schoolchildren who listen to cheap serials, about homework done to a noisy background, about violins playing accompaniments to afternoon tea chatter, about what is happening to radio, and to the thousands who take Mozart with their steak and eggs as unconcernedly as once they put salt with the potatoes. While she remembered for us, the radio was silent, even when excellent cheese scones and oatcakes made their appearance. Bach lay open at a Minuet and Gavotte, with a piano ready for playing, and a violin handy.