Its dour and formidable general manager, John Reith, did not arrive until December. So, at first, the two people best placed to shape what early broadcasting might become were Arthur Burrows, a former newspaper journalist and Marconi Company manager, and his deputy, Cecil Lewis, a dashing young First World War flying ace. Burrows had been horrified by the use of wireless in spreading misinformation during that conflict. Meanwhile, Lewis had returned from the front determined to add to \u201cthe wisdom and beauty of the world\u201d rather than destroy it. Both men wanted to turn what had been an obscure and private medium into a cultural resource from which everyone might benefit.<\/p>\n

Hooked on entertainment<\/h3>\n
It was by no means clear exactly how this would be done. As Reith pointed out, \u201cthere were no sealed orders to open\u201d. The date of the BBC\u2019s opening night had been carefully chosen to be sure everything would be up and running in time to broadcast the results of the following day\u2019s general election. Yet Lewis, who was responsible for creating a detailed schedule of programmes for the months to come, believed that news should only ever play the smallest part, having had his fill of \u201ccurrent affairs\u201d during the war. \u201cI didn\u2019t really care what was happening in Abyssinia,\u201d he later confessed. What he wanted was drama, music, big shows. \u201cWe were hooked on the idea of entertainment,\u201d he explained.<\/p>\n
Resources, though, were scarce. Nor were many performers convinced that the newfangled medium of radio was worth their effort. As a result, the BBC had a distinctly ad hoc feel about it. When it first took to the airwaves in November, the company was squeezed into a single room in Magnet House, just off London\u2019s Kingsway. Every evening, when it was time for the day\u2019s 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 \u201cLondon\u201d station. Two more stations in Birmingham and Manchester, 5IT and 2ZY, muddled along in similarly cramped conditions.<\/p>\n
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The wholesale move of the company headquarters and London operation to a larger building just off the Strand the following 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 modest telephone 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.<\/p>\n
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Yet for the BBC\u2019s rapidly growing staff, Savoy Hill was a thrilling place to work. It was bursting with energy, bustling with ambition, and free \u2013 for the moment \u2013 of the weight of tradition or routine. Programmes \u2013 short skits, book readings, brief musical recitals, the occasional talk or lecture \u2013 were always live, frequently unrehearsed, and sometimes required back-room staff to fill in at the microphone. For Children\u2019s Hour<\/em>, Arthur Burrows would turn into \u201cUncle Arthur\u201d and Cecil Lewis would become \u201cUncle Caractacus\u201d.<\/p>\n
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Small house orchestras were squeezed into sweltering studios, and BBC engineers would set out with cables and microphones to \u201crelay\u201d 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.<\/p>\n
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Idealists and dilettantes<\/h3>\n
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 programme, The Kaleidoscope<\/em>, was a dazzlingly multi-layered montage of dramatic scenes, music and readings that tied up all seven of Savoy Hill\u2019s studios at once \u2013 and left most listeners utterly bewildered.<\/p>\n
Sieveking saw his job as akin to that of a medieval craftsman set free to carve gargoyles to his heart\u2019s content. In a building stuffed full of men who had fought in the war, military metaphors and titles abounded. Sieveking \u2013 like Cecil Lewis, an ex-pilot \u2013 referred to the BBC as an \u201cAir Force\u201d. Fellow producer Lionel Fielden thought of it as a \u201cport in a storm\u201d: a home-from-home for the waifs and strays, idealists and dilettantes who had returned from the battlefield looking for new adventures.<\/p>\n

Through toiling away in the studios, the BBC\u2019s first generation of staff found a common mission <\/blockquote> <\/div> <\/div> <\/div>\n<\/div>
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Though the work was unpredictable, it was never directionless and the BBC\u2019s first generation of staff found a common mission. Their aim \u2013 as John Reith put it, quoting Matthew Arnold\u2019s 1869 work, Culture and Anarchy \u2013 was to make \u201cthe best that has been thought and known in the world current everywhere\u201d. Radio would be the means of forging a civilised world from the ashes of conflict. \u201cWe may have been silly,\u201d Fielden recalled, but \u201cGod save us, we really believed that broadcasting could revolutionise human opinion.\u201d<\/p>\n
Within a few years the BBC would be regarded as a dignified, somewhat starchy, rather cautious national institution. For now, though, Savoy Hill was youthful, volatile and, above all, brimming with hope.<\/p>\n
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David Hendy is emeritus professor at the University of Sussex. His new book is The BBC: A People\u2019s History<\/em> (Profile, 2022)<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n
IN FOCUS: The microphone that struck fear into the hearts of seasoned performers<\/em><\/h3>\n
At the heart of the BBC\u2019s operations at Savoy Hill was a simple bit of kit that\u00a0was vital to broadcasting but utterly terrifying to many who stood before it: the microphone. The earliest models had been no more than telephone receivers dangled from ceiling hooks or propped up on stands. Before long, a more sophisticated device took over: the Magnetophone. This consisted of a large, round magnet nestled in a thick sling of spongy rubber to protect it from vibration, mounted in a square wooden frame or \u201cFaraday Cage\u201d to protect it from electromagnetic interference.<\/em><\/p>\n
The BBC wanted its studios to have a homely feel, and had kitted them out\u00a0with settees and armchairs, side tables, lamps and plenty of atmospheric lighting. So the Magnetophone\u2019s wooden box was also covered in an attractive\u00a0silk fabric, and the whole contraption was mounted on splayed legs fitted with casters so it could be pushed around\u00a0the studio like any old piece of domestic furniture.<\/em><\/p>\n
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