The Ballet African

From “Eavesdroppings, Stories from small towns when sin was fun.” Published by The Dundern Group Toronto. Available at Book Express and Cambridge Centre for the Arts.

The Ballet African was a troupe of bare-breasted dancers driven by drummers in fur jocks hammering on logs. First it was just a rumour. It had taken Montreal and Toronto by storm but here! At our Capitol Theatre! The Capitol was How Green Was My Valley and  Gulliver’s Travels. Children went to matinees unescorted. The closest the Capitol had come to sex and sadism was The Ten Commandments starring Charlton Heston. Clark Gable had said “damn” in Gone with the Wind, but that was long forgiven.

It was a decent place. Bert Peters in a maroon and navy uniform complete with cap and epaulettes took your ticket in the lobby and held the lineup to sell you piano sheet music of his own compositions such as “Waka Waka Kau,” a Hawaiian medley, and “Over the Hill to Grandma,” a lovely waltz. He would autograph them, too. No bare breasts at the Capitol.

The first newspaper ads and posters on hydro poles drew gasps. The breasts were there all right, silhouetted, but the nipples showed. “From Darkest Africa,” the promotion read, “from the headwaters of the Upper Limpopo.” Savage art. Actually, the whole troupe was from New ]ersey and needed clearance from the Kitchener branch of the musicians’ union.

Evangelists, ignited, tore down the posters and stamped on them. A Pentecostal preacher called for a human chain to bar patrons from attending the theatre. Letters to the editor prophesied plagues of locusts. Such was the adverse publicity that the Friday and Saturday evening shows were sold out in advance and a Saturday matinee was ordered to handle the overflow.

I went with a friend, Len lseler, a highly respected elementary school teacher and son of a Lutheran minister, who was preparing a geography lesson on Africa at the time and felt the need of direct tribal contact. We sat beside a prominent Chinese restaurateur (George Seto) who sported a bow tie and opera glasses. Our fathers had warned us both not to attend, and we were thankful not to be seated beside them.

The curtains parted on a darkened stage spotted with what appeared to be large mounds of grass. Upon a primal scream the grass sat up and started drumming — loud, primitive, sensual. The girls floated in on orange and purple floods and danced around the

drummers in a frenzy. “Hypnotic and riveting,” the Galt Reporter said the next day. They certainly did rivet. But it wasn’t sleazy. The spark jumped, and people who had never shouted “Bravo” shouted “Bravo!” There were standing ovations. We had bitten the apple.

After the performance, I asked Len lseler if he found the bare breasts disturbing, and he said to his own amazement that he was so caught up in the artistry that he scarcely noticed them, though he had to admit they were there. My experience was the same, and we wondered how we might sneak into another performance to better appreciate what we had missed.

The Ballet African was a cosmopolitan turn for Galt. Delicatessens opened and European cafés with decent tasting bread appeared. The Salvation Army disappeared from the corner of Mill and Main, the Capitol packed the house again with the naughty revue Oh, Coward! and the lroquois Hotel got a liquor licence.

Tomorrow:The Foxy Lady